Champagne and Salmon Puffs
by giuli miadi black
Summary: She'd rejected his proposal, along with everything that came with being Logan Huntzberger's wife - and as it turned out, he came back seven years later with a much better offer. ROGAN / AU-ish? (Post-S7 No Revival) / Rating might increase (but it's unlikely)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _Hi! You've reached Rory Gilmore's number. Leave a message after the beep and I'll get back to you as soon as I can._

"Hey, Ace." A pause for self-admonishment. That nickname should have been buried with the remains of their relationship. He had no right to use it now. "I know; it's been a while." He chuckled at his own unnerving euphemism. It was a marvel that he was able to speak altogether. "I'm sorry about that."

A longer, more pungent pause. The amount of time since they'd last spoken ranked pretty low on the list of things he should be apologizing for.

"I'm not sure you've heard, but my dad died two days ago." A sigh, deep and heartfelt. It wasn't often that 'Mitchum' and 'heartfelt' could be used in the same context, yet there they were, side by side. "I'll be in Hartford for the next couple of weeks, helping Mom and Honor take care of things, and I was wondering if you'd like to meet me for dinner tomorrow night. I owe you some long overdue apologies, but this isn't a voicemail type of conversation, now, is it?" Again with the stupid euphemisms. She was all metaphors and superlatives; he was paradoxes and euphemisms.

 _Pathetic_.

"Tomorrow. 7. My parents' house." Yet another pause. Who was he to demand anything from her, anyway?

"Please?"

* * *

 **AN** : Hello everyone! I know I'm kind of super late to the party, and in fact, I started writing this two-three years ago, right before rumours about the revival became _a thing_ , but the revival itself killed me and I buried this fic in my ever-growing pile of abandoned projects. That is, until I rewatched Gilmore Girls _again_ and got totally excited about it and the muses just wouldn't leave me alone until I brought this baby back from the dead. So.

Because I started plotting this _before_ the revival, none of the events and backgrounds of the revival apply. I may have borrowed some names here and there, and I might reference the few scenes that I can actually fit in my story, but for the most part, I'm just pretending it never happened.

I'm nowhere near finished with it, and I'm planning a _big_ story. But first, I need to know, is there even a fandom any more? So, if you're reading this, please let me know! Chapter 1 should be posted soon, either way, but a little encouraging will surely help!


	2. Once More Unto the Breach

**Chapter 1 - Once More Unto the Breach**

Rory parked her car in the driveway, staring at the Huntzberger manor through her windshield as she tried to convince herself to open the door and step outside, when what she really wanted to do was restart the engine and drive away. That house brought back too many bad memories, and she just couldn't believe that she hadn't insisted on meeting Logan someplace else.

Somewhere in New York, at least.

The front door was opened before she could make up her mind, leaving her no choice but to grab her clutch and walk out of the car. Her heart fluttered against her will when she recognized Logan, standing in the doorway, looking as handsome as ever in dark denims and a white button-up shirt.

"Hello, Ace." His charming smirk was a complete overkill; just the sound of his voice was enough to make all the butterflies in her stomach come back from the dead, and hearing that nickname again almost made her feel like the past seven years had never happened.

That feeling didn't last long, though. In fact, it was gone the second he asked, "May I take your coat?"

His offer, as perfectly polite as it was, angered her more than it should have. She'd spent so much time waiting for an apology, and it was almost like all the frustration she'd accumulated over the years decided to resurface all at once, just because his first words to her weren't 'I'm sorry'.

" _'May I take your coat?_ '" she repeated, before she could stop herself. "We haven't spoken in _seven_ _years_ , and this is how you-"

"Phones work both ways, Ace," he replied, in a patient tone that did nothing but aggravate her mood.

She'd never felt this way. Almost every man in her life had hurt her in one way or another, but no one had ever made Rory Gilmore, the nicest girl to ever walk the surface of Earth, understand what rage felt like.

" _You_ broke up with _me_!" she hissed, outraged that he somehow thought he had the right to act so cool and collected when the least she expected was contrition and commiseration.

"Yes, and I've been waiting for you to call me and kindly suggest I shove a cactus up my ass ever since," he replied, his charming smile doing nothing to appease her indignation.

"I hope you don't expect me to apologize for never calling you again after you left me."

"I don't." He looked at her, as desperate to keep eye contact as she was to avoid it. "But hopefully you understand why I'd be hesitant about reaching out, after you broke my heart."

"Oh, shut up, already." She scoffed. "You're the one who broke up with me and moved all the way across the country. You don't get to play the victim here."

"Rory, please," he implored. "Aren't you tired of being angry? Of feeling hurt? Because _I_ am. You're the best thing that's ever happened in my life, and I refuse to waste any more energy on hating you. And I doubt you'd have driven all the way here if you didn't feel this way, too, so please, can we at least _try_ to be civil? Please?"

She rolled her eyes and took her coat off, shoving it into his arms as she walked into the house. The first time she'd been there, it all had looked so opulent and glamorous, even though she had been visiting her grandparents for years. The awe was gone, now, and as she followed Logan to the sitting room, her mind went through the horrible, torturous things she'd rather be doing.

Go to the dentist. Get a bikini wax. Discuss _50 Shades of Grey_ with her grandma's book club. Watch one of the Yale libraries burn down.

The possibilities were endless.

"Can I get you a drink?" he offered, walking over to the bar cart.

She sat on the loveseat closest to the exit, accepting his offer with an uninterested, "Whatever you're having is fine," and he promptly picked up two rocks glasses and a bottle of scotch.

It was fascinating, how easily they'd taken on the roles of the chivalrous host and his equally courteous guest. That scenario was far from ideal: their impending conversation was far too personal for the detachment that came from mannerly demeanour, and their shared despise for that kind of behaviour only made things more uncomfortable for them both.

On the other hand, she had to admit that it was much better than the screaming match they'd been performing in the foyer just a few minutes before.

Without saying anything, he handed her one of the glasses, then sat on the loveseat that faced hers. For the next few seconds, they just stared at each other, both feeling like that was the longest pause of their lives, second only to the one that followed his proposal. Then, after taking a deep breath and downing half of his scotch, Logan finally dared to speak up.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking away from her, like that whole situation made him more uncomfortable than he'd been letting on. Rory watched him take a sip of his drink, eyeing his glass like he was thinking that he should've brought the whole bottle along with him.

Vulnerability still didn't come easy for him – not that she'd expected otherwise.

Clearing his throat, he repeated, "I'm sorry," and Rory noticed that he sounded a little more convincing this time. "For everything. I was a jerk to you, and I'm not proud of how our relationship ended. You broke my heart, and it hurt, and to be completely honest with you, I'm not sure if I ever truly got my shit back together after that. But none of that makes my behaviour any more acceptable, nor does it change the fact that I chose to walk out on you. Again." He took a deep breath, staring into her blue eyes with such desperation that it felt like his life depended on it. "I've spent the last seven years trying to figure out how to make it up to you and how to make you stop hating me, or...- I don't know. We haven't spoken in _seven fucking years_ , and I...- I'm not gonna pretend I know how you feel about all that. But I want you to know that I wasn't the boyfriend you deserved. I mean, I'm sure you know that, but I want you to know that _I_ know that."

"Logan..." She hesitated, almost making him dread what she was going to say next. Rory didn't hesitate all that often; in fact, the only time he remembered seeing her at a loss for words was when he proposed to her. "I did get upset, and you did hurt me, but you weren't my most pathetic excuse for a boyfriend back then, and you sure as hell aren't even in the top three now. I don't hate you. I never did. But you just- You _left_. There wasn't even a half-hearted attempt at being friends. You didn't get things your way and just like that, we were over. _Everything_ was over."

"I was hurt!"

"So was I! How do you think I felt when you told me that I had to pick between being your wife or being your _nothing_? You kept telling me you loved me; didn't you love me enough to compromise? Did you love me so little that _breaking up with me_ was a more reasonable solution than having a long-distance relationship? I missed you like crazy when you were in London, Logan, and I totally understand that this is a horrible thing to _choose_ , but- If that's the price to pay to be with you, then I'd gladly have paid it. Was it too much to ask that you felt the same?"

It was his turn to hesitate. He wasn't afraid of admitting that she was right - absolutely, positively, unquestionably right - but that wasn't what rendered him speechless. Over the years, he'd spent an unhealthy amount of time imagining how reconnecting with Rory would be, but even in the worst scenarios he could create, he'd never considered the possibility that she'd question his feelings for her.

"I did love you, Ace," was all he could say, in a small, defeated voice that made Rory feel sorry for him, despite being determined not to.

"Then _why_?"

"Because I was standing there, _begging_ you to jump. I know it wasn't a leap; the long-distance relationship when I went to London, that was a leap. Marrying me, following me wherever I led you, that was a Life and Death Brigade-approved jump. I know that. I knew it all along." He closed his eyes for a second, and Rory was sure he was trying not to cry, although she'd never seen him cry before. "But I thought... I hoped it wouldn't be too much of a price to pay." He smiled bitterly, hoping she wouldn't get angry at him for using her words against her. "When you gave me the ring back, all I could think was, 'she doesn't love you. You're begging her to love you, but she doesn't'. And it hit way too close to home." He took a large sip of his scotch, his eyes supplicating her to say something.

"So, you're saying that I was just the gold-digging whore your mom always warned you I was?"

Logan met her question with a puzzled look. He wasn't sure if he understood the logic behind her conclusion, both because he'd been referring to his relationship with his father and because as far as he knew, _that_ was something his mother had never said about her - at least not to her face. Sure, his parents tended to see every girl he'd ever dated as a gold-digger (justifiably so, more often than not), and Shira may have implied that Rory wasn't good enough for him, but to his knowledge, the objections she was the most vocal about were all related to Rory's professional aspirations.

"No, I'm just saying that you pushed all the right buttons to make my - how do you say - _daddy issues_ take over." He smirked. "And I know that I paid back in kind, which was totally unfair to you, and that's exactly why I've been waiting for seven years for a call. I never wanted you to be my nothing; I honestly, truly hoped that if it ever stopped hurting – _when_ it stopped hurting – we'd get to be a part of each other's lives again. But who was I to decide when it should stop hurting for you? If I were you, I'd never forgive me, so I just...- I just never thought I had the right to approach you again."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because things have changed."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"My dad died." He sighed, downing the last of his scotch. "And his last wish, as far as I'm concerned, seems to involve you." He paused, seeing her narrow her eyes at him, and he knew what she was about to say before she'd even opened her mouth. "I know that back at Yale I couldn't have cared less about my dad's wishes, but things change, don't they? Took him almost thirty years, but he finally started saying things that made some sense." He chuckled, thinking of how his therapist would say that maybe _he_ 'd been the one who'd changed, not his father. "Don't get me wrong, it's still physically painful to say this out loud, but sometimes - more often than you'd think - I actually _agree_ with him. This is one of those cases."

Rory's eyes widened in surprise. She'd never thought she'd live to see the day when Logan would openly agree with Mitchum on something.

"But you can't do it unless I forgive you."

"No, I can't."

She sipped at her scotch, thoughtful. She knew it wasn't his intention, but he'd ended up making her feel petty. After a lifetime of neglect and emotional abuse, Logan had one last shot at making his father proud. How could she let a breakup, as awful as it was, get in the way of that?

"Logan. I've forgiven you for all the stupid things you've done, _including_ technically cheating on me." He opened his mouth to protest, but she raised her hand, a gesture he interpreted as a somewhat polite way of telling him to shut the fuck up. "As painful as it was, I'm not angry because you broke up with me. Sure, it hurt, and God, do I wish you'd chosen to do things differently, but the _years_ of radio silence? They hurt me so much more. We went from sharing a life to... Nothing. Just nothing. And although I understand now why you never called, I couldn't help but think that you just didn't care."

Logan was about to reply when the maid walked into the room, announcing that dinner was ready. He looked at the maid, gracing her with one of his signature smiles as he thanked her and said they'd be right over. As soon as she walked out, Logan turned his attention back to Rory.

"For all it's worth, I've never stopped missing you." He smiled sadly at her, thinking of all his desperate attempts to get her out of his head. The countless girls he'd slept with solely because they reminded him of her, for increasingly questionable reasons – the most notable of those being a Brown graduate, who had nothing in common with Rory other than a diploma from an Ivy League school. The weeks when he'd lived off Valium and Jack Daniels, or when he graduated from that to ecstasy and cocaine, in a self-destructive quest to find something, _anything_ , that made him feel the way she did.

Unsurprisingly, nothing was ever able to fill the void she'd left.

"I'm sorry if I've ever made you think otherwise." He got up from his seat, closing the distance between them in two strides, and placed his hand on her shoulder. His touch felt like electricity, sending shivers down her spine, as it had ever since they first met - as no one else had ever made her feel.

She looked up at him, but before she could say anything, he moved his hand away and stepped back. "I'll go grab us a bottle of wine," he said, his tone slightly more formal than before, and she wondered if he was also feeling a little uncomfortable. "That should give you plenty of time to sneak out, if you still regret having shown up."

Rory watched him walk towards the dining room, thankful that he seemed to understand that the last twenty minutes or so had already brought up enough emotional baggage for one night. There was a part of her that would have jumped at the opportunity to leave, but the biggest part insisted on staying right where she was.

If anything, because it seemed to be so important to him.

"Logan?" she called, just as he'd reached the door.

"Yeah?" He turned around to face her, his ever-present smile fading a little as he furrowed his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, too. For everything."

.x.

The dining room table was set with a place at the head and one directly to its right, in a setup that screamed _Logan_. A stack of manila folders sat on Logan's left side, and as Rory let him slide her chair into place, she found herself staring at them, fully aware that, whatever those folders held, they were the reason she was there.

"I must say, I'd forgotten how hard it is to cook for you." He smiled at her, opening the bottle of Chardonnay that he'd picked out. "Should I make lobster tails? Frozen pizza? It's an absolute nightmare." He poured a little wine into her glass, sliding it towards her and waiting for her to take a sip and nod in approval before he proceeded to fill the glass. "So, I decided to take a different approach, and settled on a menu that would give my mother a stroke. I hope you enjoy it."

As if on cue, the maid walked in, and Rory couldn't help laughing when her plate was placed in front of her and she got to see what Logan had oh-so-thoughtfully picked for them.

"Mac and cheese?" She didn't even try to hide the amusement in her voice, and Logan gave her a satisfied smile in reply.

"I'm glad to see you approve."

She smiled at him. "Well, I can't _imagine Shira_ approving of it."

" _Comfort food_?" he replied, in a flawless imitation of the righteous indignation of the Hartford elite. "In _my_ house?"

"It's more likely than you think."

Their laughter filled the room, and they exchanged a look that made it perfectly clear that they'd both missed that part of their relationship. The acid, witty remarks came easily for them, much more so than with anyone else they'd met during their time apart, and it all felt so good, so natural, that for a few seconds, neither of them knew why it'd taken them seven years to take that first step.

The only problem was, they both knew why.

"So," she said, clearing her throat. "This is a Chardonnay and mac and cheese kind of issue, huh?"

"Yeah." He dug his fork into his food, but he couldn't quite bring himself to eat it. Truth be told, everything about that night had been so nerve-racking; he was surprised by how well he'd been holding his liquor all day.

Having to meet Rory for the first time since their breakup was bad enough, but his father had left him with a mission that had the potential to make the whole proposal debacle lose its status as the lowest point of their joined lives. He'd postponed that moment for as long as he could, but with a funeral on Friday night and a meeting with his lawyers scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, his window of opportunity had nearly closed before he could prepare himself for it.

At least, he kept telling himself, this time he wouldn't be baring his heart and soul and hoping she'd say yes.

"My father had cancer," he stated, sounding more clinical than he'd intended. He'd never said that sentence out loud; hell, he barely even used that _word_ , ever since his father got the diagnosis. "It was a slow, painful death, not unlike the ones I've wished upon him occasionally." His smile turned somewhat bitter, and he looked down at his plate. He was the kind of person who always appreciated ironies, but that one didn't feel as good. "It did, however, give him time to figure some things out and to plan for the day he died. And part of that plan included me stepping up as CEO of the family company."

"Wow," she interjected. "Last time we spoke, you were dead-set on avoiding that."

"A lot can change in seven years." He laughed. "I bought a magazine. Then, about a year later, I bought another, and before I knew it, I'd become a CEO on my own right, and I was meeting my dad monthly, on my own volition, to discuss business strategies and future acquisitions, and... I was loving every second of it." He paused, losing his train of thought as he remembered his very first meeting with his dad.

He'd flown to Hartford for Honor's birthday, and after dinner, when he joined his father in the study for brandy and cigars, he somehow worked up the courage to ask for help. He didn't even remember what crucial decision prompted those events, but he did remember the way Mitchum looked at him, in equal parts stunned and _happy_ , before he told his son that they could discuss it in his office, the following morning.

For the first time in his life, Logan didn't get to just waltz into his father's office, being stopped in his tracks by the secretary, who told him that he should wait in the reception. From the first handshake to the last, and through everything in between, he wasn't treated like the rebellious son in desperate need of boundaries - he was the young, successful businessman asking for guidance from a more experienced, more successful peer.

They'd never realized just how much they both needed that distinction.

"He told me he was proud of me, Ace," he confessed. "He _wrote_ that he was proud of me."

"He did?!"

"Yeah," he replied, with a fond smile that surprised her. "He left me a letter, saying that I've become the businessman he'd always thought I could be and that he couldn't be more pleased to leave me the company. But - and with Mitchum, there's always a 'but' - he did point out that I haven't so much as _touched_ a newspaper in years." He shrugged, trying to pretend he wasn't affected by that comment, although Rory could tell that his true feelings were a bit more bitter than he was letting on. "Which apparently made him think that I may not be all that qualified for this particular job."

He saw Rory narrow her eyes, and he knew that she was putting the pieces together, so it didn't come as a surprise that her only reply was, "So, you need someone to help you."

"Yup," he replied, aware that she was about to go on one of those Rory Gilmore rants where his participation in the conversation was nearly unnecessary, if not straight-up detrimental.

"And your dad thought it was a good idea to choose your ex-girlfriend for the job."

"Exactly."

"And that getting you to do the asking was _also_ a good idea."

"Right."

"Wow. He somehow found a way to be a sadistic asshole all the way from the grave. Impressive."

"Very."

"And you agree with him, nevertheless."

"That I do."

"Care to explain why?"

He looked at her, unable to hide his surprise at being asked an actual question.

"We work well together. Both personally _and_ professionally. I respect you and trust you, more than anyone else in the world - and I'd like to remind you, Ace, that I've literally put my life in the hands of other people more times than you'll ever know." He smiled, thinking of all the Life and Death Brigade stunts that had made him wonder if he'd live to see another day. "And more importantly, you're not afraid of telling me to fuck off when I'm being insufferable."

"All of which would have been very good reasons to propose to me," she said, ignoring the pain that crossed his face at the mere mention of that word. "But none of that explains why we should work together, or why _Mitchum_ would pick me, of all people, for the job."

"Because he was wrong about you."

"Did he say that in that letter of his, too?" she asked, in a tone that came off as more sarcastic than initially intended. Logan sighed, grabbing the first folder from the pile and dropping it on the table between them.

"He didn't have to."

Rory eyed the folder curiously, not daring to open it. The word _Career_ was written in big, bold letters on the cover, and she was sure that she knew both what kind of content she'd find in it and where it'd come from.

"You had me investigated."

"My dad did," he replied, as if it made a difference. "I promise you, I'm every bit as disgusted as you are, but as far as I can tell, there's nothing in this particular folder that can't be found by just googling your name."

"And the others?"

"I haven't touched them." He shrugged, nudging the remaining folders closer to her. "Your financial records are none of my concern, and your relationship status can't help me determine if you're qualified for the position I'm offering you."

"And what position is that, exactly?"

His smile widened, and he sipped at his wine, trying to keep her in suspense for at least a couple more seconds. He needed that break, for more than dramatic purposes. He needed to give her a chance to prepare for his offer.

"Chief operations officer."

"Logan! That's-"

"A C-suite job? Just one step below me? Why, yes, it is. In fact, your office will be right next to mine. Top floor. Great view. Private assistant. The whole shebang."

"It's too much! There's no way in hell that I'm qualified for it!"

"Funny you should say that to _me,_ of all people. If having the money to buy the goddamn company was all the qualification I needed to become a CEO, then you sure as fuck can be a COO because you know how to navigate a newsroom."

"Logan, I'm just a reporter! Not even a reporter at all, if you ask my editor! All I do is write book reviews once a week and call it a day!"

"Which is a waste of your talent, if you ask me. And of that pretty pair of Ivy League diplomas that surely weren't meant to be used only to decorate your living room."

"Right, because a master's degree in Journalism magically grants me management skills."

"Well, if it was issued by Harvard..."

"Logan!"

He couldn't help laughing at her indignation. "Okay, so maybe being a kickass journalist doesn't make you 'high bitch in charge'-material, but by the same logic, having a couple million dollars to spare, or having a certain last name, shouldn't make you a kickass boss, and yet here I am. Me, and _so many_ powerful men, including your publisher. And what about that part of your résumé that says, 'editor of the _Yale Daily News_ '? Because it sounds just like 'great opportunity to learn those managing skills' to me."

"It's completely different!"

"Trust me, it's all exactly the same. Dealing with people, making executive decisions, working your way through one deadline after another... That's the job, Ace. Same skill set, larger scale. Higher stakes."

"Which is a very important factor all on its own."

"Rory. People would _kill_ for this job. If you don't want it - if you _really_ don't want it - I can find someone who does in a heartbeat. But I want _you_ , and _my dad_ wanted you, and if that isn't enough to convince you that you can rise up to the challenge, I don't know what is." He paused, sipping at his wine. "And if you do fail - which I'm sure you won't - I'll be the one taking the fall. I'll be the incompetent CEO who hired the girl with zero experience. And you... You'll fall from your pedestal right into the chair of the editor-in-chief of any newspaper you want. As long as I don't own it, of course, because that would be just awkward."

She remained silent, chewing on her food as she processed everything he'd just said. On the surface, all that he was saying made just enough sense, but she knew that Logan was the type of guy who could charm his way into the White House _on a bad day_ , and the history between the two of them only made her more inclined to trust him. There had been way too many times when he'd told her to jump and she'd simply asked how high; too many times when he'd been there to break her fall.

But there had also been one time too many when she'd been offered the choice between following her own path or his. And ultimately, she wasn't inclined to make a different choice this time around.

"You are aware, I hope, that you're just asking me, _again_ , to leave my life behind for you."

"I am aware that this is a possible interpretation, yes."

"Isn't that what you're doing?"

"Not really, no. First of all, I'm not asking you to do anything for me. I'm merely offering you a job - one that's beneficial for the both of us, like all jobs should be. And while I do understand that your whole life is in New York, people leave their lives behind for the sake of their careers all the time. Isn't that what prompted you to move to New Haven? Boston? Cambridge?" He said that word almost like it disgusted him, then paused for a heartbeat before adding, " _New York_?"

"But this is different, Logan. It's you, and me, and us, and... After everything- I can't just leave the past decade at the door every morning and-" She stopped talking abruptly, dropping her fork on her plate. Logan eyed her, wondering what horrible thought could possibly have crossed her mind to warrant such a dramatic reaction.

"And... What?"

She sighed, leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the Monet behind him as if she was fascinated by it. When she spoke, her voice was so low that he could barely make out the words, although she was sitting within arm's reach from him.

"I'd rather never see you again than have to call you 'Mr. Huntzberger' every day."

He downed his wine, reaching for the bottle and refilling his glass almost to the brim, while a whirlwind of emotions crossed his face, until he finally settled on being _pissed_. Five minutes ago, she'd been bitching about his decision to never contact her after their breakup, and now she had the audacity to say _that_ to him? How dare she hold his decision to stay away against him, when she clearly understood that it was a perfectly reasonable choice when the alternative was some bullshit attempt at a relationship that wouldn't have made them happy?

Rory couldn't bear to look at him, so she averted her attention back to her plate, although she wasn't sure she'd be able to eat anything. She briefly considered making a cheeky comment about having found his shoes and getting to walk a few miles in them, but she doubted he'd welcome it, so she just let them fall into an uncomfortable, unwelcome silence, so unbearable that she could've sworn that she could hear him _breathing_.

She could, at least, hear him drinking. The glass rasping on the wooden surface of the table as he picked it up, then again, a few seconds later, as he put it back down. The wine sloshing on the glass as he refilled it. The thud of the bottle hitting the table, as if he kept misjudging the distance between them.

He went through two full cycles of that, and just as she'd started to wonder how he hadn't run out of wine yet, he cleared his throat, uttering a laconic 'excuse me' before he slid his chair back on the hardwood floor, and he'd disappeared through the kitchen doors before she found it in herself to look up at him.

She did see him come back, though, bringing a new bottle of Chardonnay, which he uncorked even though he didn't bother refilling his glass.

"The irony in it," he finally said, his voice devoid of emotion, "is that I've never said anything about only wanting you back in my life as an employee."

.x.

After Logan's outburst, Rory expected the rest of their dinner to be filled with tension and passive-aggressiveness, with him doing everything he could to get her to leave without actually kicking her out. Instead, he reiterated that he'd missed her during their time apart, telling her that he'd love to have her back in his life, even if she declined his offer.

He even went as far as admitting that never contacting her again was one of his biggest regrets, and at that point, she'd have thanked him for his candour if she wasn't afraid that he might misinterpret her gesture.

The truth was, she was astonished by how openly he'd been talking to her all night. Logan had always been hesitant to discuss serious things with her, especially when his feelings were involved. Grand gestures, like rented coffee carts and Hermès handbags, were more his style, and it'd taken her a while to understand that he wasn't simply trying to buy her love - he just didn't feel comfortable wearing his heart on his sleeve.

But the man sharing a table with her didn't seem to be afraid of showing her all his cards, of begging her not to leave when he was the first to admit that he didn't have the right to ask anything from her.

So, she decided to stay, at least for whatever was left of dinner.

With that decision in mind, she asked him about the job he'd offered her, concluding that it was the safest subject she could bring up. His face lit up at the idea that she was actually considering his proposition, and they proceeded to discuss her proposed responsibilities, while the maid switched their plates for red velvet cake and coffee.

By the time their coffees got cold and second slices of cake had been eaten, he'd almost managed to win her over, although it was mostly due to how passionately he talked about the job. It was clear that the whole concept excited him to no end, and that he'd found himself, in an existential sense, as a CEO. Still, Rory knew that, despite all the similarities between them, she and Logan weren't the same person, and while he was the type of guy who liked to be in charge, she saw herself as someone who liked being in the front, witnessing and helping write History, instead of pulling the strings in the background.

Not to mention that ruling the publishing world would entail giving up on writing altogether. She admitted that her current job wasn't what she'd dreamed for herself, but at least now she could pretend that she was still trying to follow her plan. If she stopped writing, if she walked out of the _New York Times_ building with no intention of ever coming back, she'd be forced to give her career a long overdue re-evaluation, and she didn't like that perspective.

The combination of Logan's best efforts and her own inner debate - not to mention the copious amounts of wine - resulted in Rory promising him that she'd think about his offer over the weekend, and that he'd have an answer by Tuesday morning, a deadline that he'd set with little explanation besides a cryptic, "It's gonna be much harder to hire you afterwards".

By then, the clock on the mantel was already proclaiming it to be way past ten, but the lateness of the hour surprised her less than the fact that she didn't want the night to end. They felt so comfortable around each other, and although she knew that it could be chalked up to their current state of inebriation, she wasn't gonna pretend that they had returned to their old dynamics just because they were drunk.

She was home again, after seven years away. And she didn't want to leave.

Logan seemed to feel the same way, considering how reluctantly he agreed that she should probably head back to New York. But despite their lack of interest in her leaving, they somehow found themselves back in the foyer, wrapping up their conversation while Rory buttoned up her coat.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay a little longer?" he asked, as she took her clutch from the shelf where he'd placed it.

She looked at him, wanting to say yes as desperately as wanted to hear it. Her brain quickly supplied her with a million excuses to accept that offer – it wasn't that late, and she wasn't that sober, and they were having too much fun. But she was much too responsible to ignore that it was Thursday night, and she was supposed to be at work in less than twelve hours, so instead of a vehement agreement, her reply was a somewhat regretful, "I can't."

"Not my question," he quipped back, not missing a beat.

"I'd love to stay, Logan," she said, with a tired sigh. The last thing her weak resolution needed was having to deal with his clever replies and self-satisfied smirks. "But I really need to go home."

"You can still go home, Ace, you just don't have to do it now."

"I live in another state!"

"And?"

"It's a two-hour drive!"

"And?"

"And if I leave now, it'll be midnight by the time I get home."

"Sounds early enough to me."

"I have to work tomorrow."

"It's not like you'd be the first person to ever go to work on four hours of sleep or less."

"More like no sleep at all."

"But baby," he said, reaching out for her hand and pulling her closer. "It's cold outside."

She was about to protest when he shifted forward, closing the distance between them, and before either of them became fully aware of the irresistible forces that pulled them together, he kissed her - or maybe it was she who kissed him.

They would never know for sure.

Logan had always thought that if he ever got to kiss Rory again, it would be one of those kisses that are filled with lust and longing, in a desperate and foolish attempt to make up for lost time. Instead, their second first kiss was just as sweet as the real one.

And just as brief.

She pulled back before he even realised what they were doing, before he had the chance to savour the feeling of her lips on his, before he ever thought of letting go of her hand to bury his fingers in her hair.

"Logan, I have to work tomorrow," she repeated, sounding far less determined this time, and he knew that she'd be begging him for an excuse to stay, if she could.

"Bridges to burn when we get to them," he replied, with a smile, but the look she gave him was a little less amused than he'd expected.

"That's not how the say-"

"Ace," he interrupted her, resting his forehead against hers. "Shut up."

He kissed her again before she could say anything, and this time she didn't move away. She allowed herself to melt into his arms, to wrap her arms around his neck, to run her fingers down his chest in the search for the buttons on his shirt, while he unbuttoned her coat and slid it over her shoulders.

Making out like it was the end of the world. Yet another thing they'd missed about each other.

* * *

 **AN** : I gotta admit, when I said "soon", I didn't think I meant "tonight". And yet, here we are.

Lots of things happening in one chapter - let me know how you feel about it! And thank you so so much for all the love you've already shared!


	3. The Long Morrow

**Chapter 2 - The Long Morrow**

 _I couldn't believe that our paths hadn't crossed years before, that we'd been barely missing each other for our whole lives. I grew up learning to navigate the social circle frequented by her grandparents, but I got shipped off to boarding school before her Friday night dinners began. The first high school to ever kick me out was the one where she graduated from, and after an unexpected decision that led her to Yale, she moved to New Haven just as I left for my sabbatical year._

 _Unwitting and belated, she followed my footsteps, her path in the world overlapping with mine in so many points that it was hard not to conclude that we were meant to meet. And when we did – when the planets aligned in just the right way to allow us to be at the same place, at the same time-_

 _That was the moment when my life began._

Logan Huntzberger – _The best years (of our lives)_

.x.

Just like every morning, Rory woke up the next day with her alarm ringing. But unlike every morning, her cell phone wasn't buried under her pillow, and when she outstretched her arm to reach for the bedside table, her hand hit a body, instead.

 _Logan_ 's body.

The realization hit her like a wall of bricks, and all her memories from the previous night resurfaced at once. Kissing him in the foyer. (She couldn't believe she'd forgotten what a great kisser he was.) Stumbling their way upstairs. (It was impressive that they'd somehow managed to reach the top floor.) Having embarrassingly loud, mind-blowingly amazing sex in his old bedroom. (She'd always been pleasantly surprised by his ability to fuck while intoxicated.) Falling asleep in his arms, like that's where she belonged.

Oddly enough, she didn't really regret anything.

Well, anything except for polishing off that second bottle of wine. _That_ had been a mistake, if the incessant pounding in her head had any say on it.

"Morning, Ace," Logan said, ever so softly, reaching for her phone on the bedside table and turning off her alarm. "Coffee?"

She accepted the mug that he offered and took a sip of the most delicious coffee she'd ever had in her whole life - or maybe that was just her hangover speaking. Either way, it was enough to lift off at least part of the fog that had settled on her brain, and in her newfound clarity, she noticed that Logan was sitting on the bed, fully dressed, his hair still damp from the shower.

But did any of that make him look any less like hell? Absolutely not.

"How long have you been up?"

He chuckled, stopping himself short from making fun of her priorities. "About an hour. My mom is in Xanax time." He shrugged, trying to hide his annoyance as being woken up, exhausted and hungover, by a six-am phone call from his mother, with the sole purpose of reminding him that he was expected to give a eulogy at his father's funeral, that night.

On the bright side, that extra hour had given him plenty of time to look for their clothes, find her phone and plug it in to charge, shower and, more importantly, think about all those things that he knew would cross her mind sooner rather than later.

Such as, what to do about Rory waking up in Hartford, when she was supposed to be in a newsroom in New York in an hour.

"Your clothes are on the bathroom sink, or you can just take the bathrobe that's behind the door, if you prefer." He smirked. Before they were _a thing_ , he used to keep a spare bathrobe in his dorm room for his 'overnight guests' - a fact that she'd once used as evidence that his 'player' ways were incompatible with her monogamous tendencies. The irony that now _she_ was the overnight guest being offered a bathrobe wasn't lost in him, although it didn't feel all that amusing. "And not that there's anything interesting in my medicine cabinet, but since you're gonna go through it anyway, spare toothbrushes are in the third drawer. _And_...-" He reached for the bottle of Advil on the bedside table and placed it between them. "You might want a couple of these."

"My hero!" She would have given him an exaggerated hug if she wasn't feeling like her brain was sloshing around in her head. Instead, she opened the bottle of Advil, took two pills, and washed them down with coffee. "What ever would I do without you?"

"Hold off on the love declarations there, Ace," he replied, with a laugh. Her reaction was so overly dramatic that it reminded him a little of Finn, and seeing Rory acting _that_ over-the-top was always amusing - not that he couldn't relate to her reaction, because he totally did.

After all, he'd been known to proclaim his undying love for Colin and Juliet (and one or two girls whose names he didn't really remember), just because they had aspirins on standby when he woke up after particularly good ragers.

"At least wait till I save you from getting fired," he added, winking at her, and Rory's eyes widened, as if she'd just now realized that it was Friday and she was a good three hours late for work - and in no shape to face either the drive back home or a whole day in a newsroom.

"Fuck!" She fumbled with the covers, motioning to get out of the bed, but Logan grabbed her hand and pulled her back.

"Hey, where are you going? I have a plan." He smiled at her, one of those arrogant smiles that always indicated that he was about to use his superpowers to dazzle someone.

"Oh, do you, now?"

"Yup. I was just waiting for you to wake up, so I could run it by you before I set it in motion. Don't want you getting mad with me for saving your ass without your consent, do I?"

She gave him an annoyed look. "Hangover, Logan, remember? Get to the point, already."

"Well, you know, the fun thing about being on this coast is that my last name _means_ something around here. And while normally I'm not too big on having a bunch of sycophants kissing my ass at all times, for the past couple of days I've really been enjoying how easy it is to amass a legion of slaves just by reminding them that my father died last week, poor orphan me." He faked an innocent smile, which was met by a glare from Rory.

" _Point_ , Logan?"

"Oh, right. So. Your editor used to work for the Huntzberger Group, and my dad was kind of friends with your publisher, so it'd take me one phone call - two, tops - to get you off for the day. I could even add a 'she's been helping me _so much_ with the funeral', for good measure."

Rory hesitated. She'd always been a little uncomfortable with Logan's tendency to use his last name to get things, even more so after having spent so much time hearing him whine about his deep-seated hatred for all that being a Huntzberger entailed. Their argument after Jess' visit came to mind, and she couldn't help remembering what he'd said about having one door open and being pushed through it against his will.

He'd moved to California in his search for new doors, ones he _chose_ to open and walk through, and it didn't sit well with her that he still seemed to be perfectly fine with picking up his phone and using the old 'Logan Huntzberger; yes, of _those_ Huntzbergers' line, just so she could avoid the consequences of her irresponsible choices.

Still, if her job was on the line, she wasn't exactly inclined to put up a fight.

"Fine," she conceded. "Just try not to get me fired in the process."

If it was possible for a smile to be sarcastic, that adjective would definitely be the one she'd choose to describe the way he smiled at her, as he replied, "Wouldn't dream of it."

.x.

Just as Logan had predicted, it only took him a five-minute phone call before he'd secured Rory a day off from work, on the condition that she met all her upcoming deadlines. That stipulation almost made him laugh, because he doubted that she had any assignments other than her column update for the Saturday edition, and knowing her, he was sure that it'd been print-ready for at least a couple of days - and he wouldn't put it above her to have a copy of the file in a thread of emails to herself _and_ at least two different flash drives.

If anyone had to be reminded not to miss a deadline, that person most definitely _wasn't_ Rory Gilmore.

He gave her a rundown of his conversation with her editor when she came out of the bathroom, now fully dressed in last night's clothes and with her hair in a messy ponytail. She thanked him, as if she'd never believed he'd be able to pull it off, but he just shrugged off her appreciation with a casual, "That's what rich ex-boyfriends are for."

She laughed, but before she could find a good comeback, Logan got off the bed, putting his phone in his pocket and handing Rory her own. Then, after deciding that they both seemed ready to face the world outside his bedroom, he gave her a radiant smile and finally said the magic word.

"Breakfast?"

.x.

They hadn't even reached the stairs before they were hit by the realization that they'd run out of excuses to avoid talking about the elephant in the room. No issues were more pressing that the fact that they'd slept together, no discussion more important than the consequences it would have in their relationship (and what relationship was that, exactly?), no decision more urgent than if it meant that his job offer was now off the table.

Still, they made their way to the dining room in uncomfortable silence, both too afraid to even think of what to say, too busy trying to find a way to get the hell away from that conversation. But once they were sitting at the table, surrounded by coffee and croissants and blueberry muffins, tiptoeing around that subject started to feel a bit too ridiculous - even by their current standards.

"So."

"So?"

"Last night."

"Can't say we saw it coming, huh?"

"Nope."

"But it was good."

"It was _great_."

"Then again, we're always great."

"That we are."

Rory sighed, finding it hard not to think of how her previous partners stacked up against him. Dean had been too nice, and ultimately, too inexperienced to be able to compete with Logan. The first couple of years post-Yale weren't much better, as most of her sexual encounters were either too forgettable, too awkward, or straight-up unsatisfactory - and then she met Nick. He was the only guy whose abilities could have given Logan a run for his money, but even his abundance of skills couldn't make up for the fact that they didn't have nearly as much chemistry as she did with her ex.

Logan's thoughts followed a path quite similar to hers. He'd had dozens (hundreds?) of nameless, faceless one-night stands, who by definition lacked everything that made him and Rory great - the synchrony, the intimacy, the deep, unabridged knowledge of each other's bodies. And even Chloe - the girl who never said no, the one he could see himself settling with - was far from being The Best He'd Ever Had, simply because she didn't feel like Rory, didn't sound like Rory, didn't respond to him like Rory.

They'd ruined each other. And now they were acutely aware of that.

"What happens now?" he asked, deciding to rip the band-aid off, despite being deathly scared of it. He knew what answer he _wanted_ from her, but he wasn't sure what he _expected_. Would she jump at the idea of being _something_ , right away, with him? Would she tell him that they shouldn't ever do that again? What were the odds that she'd announce that she was with someone else and sleeping with him had just been a fun mistake?

He didn't know, and he didn't think he was all that ready to find out.

But he had to.

"I don't know," she confessed. "We shouldn't...-"

"No, we shouldn't", he agreed. The reasons, even if she was single, were numerous, the biggest being Finn's voice in his head, telling him that 'if you're in her, you're not over her'. "But we will," he added, his voice betraying just the tiniest hint of hopefulness. "Won't we?"

"Probably."

" _Definitely_."

She rolled her eyes at him, but her smirk told him that she couldn't disagree with his choice of adverb. When they'd first got together, the sexual tension between them had been so overwhelming that they were both surprised by how long it took for them to sleep together for the first time - but after the initial delay, keeping their hands off each other had proved to be all but impossible.

If the previous night was anything to go by, they doubted things would be any different this time around.

He sighed, running his hands over his hair. "This is Yale, all over again."

"What do you mean?"

"You. Me." He shrugged. "Definitely girlfriend material." He pointed at her, then at himself. "Definitely can't do commitment. Not willing, _at all,_ to pretend to you that I can."

"Wow, war flashbacks," she joked, but he met her comment with an unexpected stern look.

"I'm serious Rory," he chastised her, and she frowned, like she always did when he called her by her name. "And I don't mean it as a 22-year-old playboy who had a literal line of girls desperate to sleep with him; I mean it in the most grown-up, 'I couldn't be in a worse place for this shit' way." He sighed, again. He had no idea why he'd decided that bringing that up was a good idea, but now he couldn't stop himself from talking. "I got engaged, you know? We had the dress picked out, and china patterns had been chosen, and we even found the perfect shade of off-white for the napkins. And then, right before Christmas, she left. Found someone else, someone she'd been seeing behind my back for _months_ , and decided that my last name and my bank account weren't worth being bound to me for the rest of her life. Because the prenup? Oh, the prenup; it would have _destroyed_ her if she filed for a divorce. And the best part? As of March 15th, I'll officially have paid for my ex-fiancée's wedding with the person she cheated on me with, isn't that just _fantastic_?"

He laughed bitterly and continued, "Not that I loved her. I never did. But there's a limited number of blows to the ego a guy can take at once, and I was _crushed_ when she left me. And just as I was starting to get my shit together, Honor called to tell me that my dad died. We were finally starting to build a real relationship, him and I, and now he's gone, and you know what's worse? I haven't even had the time to decide if I should mourn him or be glad he's dead, because I have a company to take over, and apparently that doesn't just mean moving back to fucking _Connecticut_ , the most bittersweet of all 50 states. Oh, no, that means inviting my ex-girlfriend, the one I _should_ have married, back into my life, and giving her an office that shares a wall with mine, because why the _fuck_ \- Why the fuck would I need space from you, right?" He breathed in deeply, then, in a perfect imitation of his father, added, "Don't be naïve, son. If almost a decade with the whole country between you two didn't do the trick...-"

He stopped talking abruptly, realizing what he'd just said. He knew he was still in love with her, even after all this time. He knew that, because it still hurt whenever he saw her name in a byline, and because he still kept looking for excuses to avoid any and all parties with a Gilmore on the guest list, on the off chance that she'd be dragged along. He knew that, because of all the songs he still couldn't bear to hear, all the movies he couldn't force himself to watch, all the newspapers he'd thrown out, untouched, because it was meaningless to sit at the kitchen table with the Sunday edition of the _Times_ if she wasn't there to pester him about being a slow reader.

And he knew that, without a hint of a doubt, because when he saw his dad singing high praise of her in his letter, he felt his heart break into a million tiny pieces when he realized that the warm and fuzzy feeling that threatened to grow in his chest was a tiny sliver of hope. Hope that the flimsy excuse he'd been offered would be enough to get her back in his life. Hope that he'd get to see how perfectly happy she was with how things had turned out for her, so he could at least make some sense of the most painful experience of his life - or that she'd be every bit as miserable as he was, so he'd know that he wasn't the only one who'd been dwelling in pain for all these years.

But knowing that he loved her didn't mean, in any way, that he was ready to say that out loud. Even when they were together, when he knew his feelings were not only valid, but reciprocated, he'd been wary of telling her how he felt, telling himself it was because he'd grown up in a house where 'love' was the most forbidden of all four-letter words.

But ready or not, it was too late to go back now, too late to claim that his last sentence had been off the record. It was all he could do to hope she'd let him down easy - he wouldn't dare hoping she'd say she loved him back.

And if her deer-in-headlights look was any measure, he was in for a huge fall.

He'd nearly reached the point of begging her to say something when she broke out of her daze, her eyes meeting his as she smiled at him.

"Forty years alone in space, huh?"

He couldn't help smiling back at her, at her choice of reference and all the memories it brought back. 'That's true love,' he'd said, as they watched that episode of _The Twilight Zone_ \- the one that was his favourite, that had been his favourite way before he'd ever dreamed of experiencing _true love_. And when he did, when he realized that he'd found the girl worth waiting for, he'd chosen that same reference, in the shape of a rocket model, to let her know that he was in it for the long haul.

Sometimes, he couldn't believe he'd been stupid enough to lose her.

"Forty years alone in space," he agreed.

She nodded slowly, solemnly, digesting the whole conversation. He could almost see the pro/con list forming in her mind, but before she could reach a conclusion, they heard the front door slamming shut, followed by Honor's voice echoing throughout the house.

"Baby brother!"

Logan groaned, frustrated by the unwelcome interruption - and even more frustrated by his sister's annoying choice of greeting.

"I'm sorry," he mouthed at Rory, before yelling back at Honor, "Dining room!"

"I brought a box full of stuff that Mom accidentally sent to my place," Honor rambled on, making her way to the dining room. "Why she'd think that Dad would have left me his books is beyond-" She stopped talking when she saw her brother's guest. "Rory! It's so good to see you!" She hurried over to hug Rory, before turning to Logan. "Please tell me this means I can like her again."

"Like that's ever stopped you."

Honor laughed. "Oh my God, I'm really happy to see you again," she said, turning her attention back to Rory. "And you look fantastic! Doesn't she look fantastic?"

Logan looked at his ex-girlfriend, taking in her appearance. Except for the haircut (now a shoulder-length, wavy bob), she hadn't changed at all in all those years, and in that exact moment, with her clothes wrinkled and her hair in a messy ponytail, she looked like the Rory he liked the most - the down-to-earth version of her, the one he'd fallen in love with because she was different from everyone else around him.

"She does," he said, more to himself than to his sister, who completely ignored him, anyway, sitting on the chair next to Rory's and reaching for a muffin.

"I'm really sorry to interrupt your breakfast and all," she said, finally gracing her brother with her undivided attention, "but Mom's been driving me crazy. She's just called to demand I take you shopping because your suit for the funeral isn't black enough." She rolled her eyes. "Thank God she's been talking about holing up in Martha's Vineyard again for the rest of the month."

"I give you a week before she runs out of Xanax," Logan replied, matter-of-factly, although he hoped that wouldn't be the case. "Hopefully, I'll be out of here by then."

Honor gave her brother a knowing look. His relationship with their parents had never been good, by any measure, and it all had taken a turn for the worse with the combination of his leaving the family company and their mother's poorly concealed joy that he and Rory had broken up. He'd eventually found some sort of equilibrium with Mitchum, but things with his mother kept growing worse every time he flew back to Hartford, especially after he met Chloe - whom Shira openly referred to as 'Logan's French whore'.

Add to that the emotionally draining situation they found themselves in, and Honor could only imagine how bad things would get if they were forced to spend more than a few hours around each other.

"So, Rory," she said, looking at their guest. "Do you have plans for tonight?"

"Honor," Logan groaned. He knew where this was going, and he didn't like it one bit.

"What?" Honor gave him an innocent look, before smiling brightly at Rory. "Would you like to come to Dad's funeral tonight? We'd have invited you earlier, but _someone_ vetoed it."

Logan glared at his sister, then looked at Rory. "I didn't think you'd actually show up for dinner last night," he explained, "and I thought it'd be way too awkward to meet you for the first time since the breakup at my dad's funeral."

" _But_ ," Honor interjected, "you did show up, and the two of you seem to be getting along _just fine_ , so I don't see any reason why you shouldn't come, if you'd like." She opened her purse, looking for the mock-up programmes that she was sure she hadn't thrown out yet. "Mom banned Colin and Finn from the premises after they broke a window at the pool house, and we all need a friendly face around in times like this, don't you think?"

Rory glanced at Logan, trying to decide which answer she should give. She did agree that Logan would benefit from surrounding himself with people whose presence he actually liked, instead of his mother and her friends, but she didn't think she was the right person for the job, not with the massive amounts of baggage they had - which had only been made heavier by the past twelve hours.

Luckily, she didn't have to reply, because before she could say anything, Honor found what she was looking for and handed her a booklet with Mitchum's picture on the cover. "The address to the church is on the last page, in case you want to show up for the service." She got up from her chair, not waiting for Rory's reply. "Anyway, I've got some stuff to do around here, so I'll let you finish your breakfast. Brother, I'm taking the box to your room, okay?"

Logan barely shrugged in acknowledgement, not bothering to look away from Rory. He watched his sister hug his ex-girlfriend, telling her yet again how much she'd been missed, before finally waltzing out towards the kitchen.

"So, I guess I should get going, then," Rory said, and Logan wondered if he'd imagined the hint of disappointment in her voice.

"You don't have to."

"You and Honor clearly have a long day ahead of you, and I... Well, apparently, I need to find a dress for tonight."

He couldn't help smiling at her. "So, you're coming to the funeral?"

"Would you rather I didn't?"

"I'd love it if you came, Ace, but if you think it's all... _too much_ , then...-"

"Look, you did give me a lot to think about in the past fourteen hours."

"I know."

"And it _is_ Mitchum's funeral, and I don't like him much."

" _I know!_ "

"But if it's important to you..." She looked at him. "Unless that whole speech about wanting me back in your life in any way I offered was just a really prolix way to try to get in my pants."

"It wasn't."

"So, I'll see you tonight."

He smiled. The perspective of seeing her again, and the fact that she seemed to be willing to endure a party with his mother just because her presence would mean the world to him, made him think that he'd somehow managed to not fuck everything up by sleeping with her, and that realization gave him greater consolation than he'd expected.

"I'll see you tonight." He placed his napkin on the table and got up. "Come on, I'll take you to the door. We don't want you getting lost and ending up in the attic."

She laughed, letting him lead her back to the foyer, pretending not to notice that he'd wrapped his arm around her shoulder, like he used to do. Now that she was sober, the proximity between them served as a huge warning sign about how easy it'd be for both of them to just pick up from where they'd left off.

Not that she was entirely against the idea of giving their relationship another shot. He'd all but admitted that he was still in love with her, and she'd be lying if she said that he was the only one. The feelings were all there, and the chemistry was all there, and so were the talking, the bantering, the flirting, and all those small things that made them so heartbreakingly _epic_.

But she'd spent a significant part of her life watching her parents try and fail to just go back to what they'd once had, and the one lesson that she'd taken from it was that rekindling old flames could go very, very wrong. Were she naïve, she'd gladly have held onto the hope that the results could be different for them, but she wasn't naïve; she knew that the outcome would be the exact same, unless they somehow managed to start all over.

And Logan's arm around her shoulders said, loud and clear, that they were well on the way to failing at that.

.x.

"I never thanked you for showing up last night," he said, watching her button up her coat. She looked up at him, shaking her head like she thought he was being silly. "If I were you, I wouldn't have come."

"You don't have to thank me, Logan. It's just one of those things, you know. When a Huntzberger begs for a chance to apologize to you, you show up."

"I wasn't _begging_!"

"You said 'please', like, three times."

"No, I didn't!"

"You did, too! And I got the message right here if you need proof." She waved her cell phone at him, and something about their bantering - or maybe the fact that they were once again in the foyer, trying to say goodbye without actually wanting to say goodbye - made him _really_ want to kiss her.

Instead, he opened the door, hoping that the freezing February weather would help ruin the mood. The last thing he wanted was yet another mistake to add to his list of regrets of the night.

Thankfully, Rory took the hint, grabbing her clutch and only briefly touching his shoulder before she stepped outside. Then, she turned around, looking at him with the tiniest amount of sadness in her eyes as she said, "Goodbye, Logan."

"Goodbye, Rory."

This time, those words didn't taste as bad.

Not as bad at all.

* * *

 **A/N:** First of all, thank you so much for all the reviews! Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected 25 reviews for a single chapter, and I'm so glad you all seem to be enjoying this story so much! (And I can't say I don't find it hilarious that we all hate the revival so much!)

This chapter is one of the longest I have so far, and I hope it answered some questions you raised in the reviews (such as, where in the world is Shira Huntzberger and how Rory felt the morning after). But I know it raised a lot of new ones, so hit me up with them all! And raise your hand if now you can't get Dua Lipa's _New Rules_ out of your head.

On a last note, I currently have two more chapters done and I'm working on 5 (but it's just past its embryo stage, poor thing). Since I need that "buffer" so I can finish new chapters without any accidental hiatuses, I'm thinking of sticking to a weekly schedule for the time being. So, I'll see you all next Saturday!


	4. Sophie's Choice

**A/N:** I'll have more notes at the end, but I feel the need to warn you all that this chapter is slightly experimental, so I apologize in advance if anyone finds it a bit confusing. I did my best to make it as clear as possible.

Now, without further ado...

* * *

 **Chapter 3 - Sophie's Choice**

 _ **Rory Gilmore:**_ _Hey, Mom! Are you free for lunch today? I'm in the neighbourhood and I thought I'd stop by. Let me know._

 _ **Lorelai Gilmore:**_ _What do you mean, you're in the neighbourhood? Are you okay?_

 _ **Rory Gilmore:**_ _It's a long story, but, yeah, I'm okay. Just need to talk to you._

 _ **Lorelai Gilmore:**_ _You sure it can wait until lunch, kid?_

 _ **Rory Gilmore:**_ _Sure. I'll be waiting for you in the house. Bring the burgers._

.x.

The red Prius that Rory had bought upon her return to New England was parked in the driveway when Lorelai came home, an occurrence that had become far too unusual for their liking. Normally, she'd be thrilled that her daughter had found the time to pay her a visit, but it was Friday afternoon, and knowing that Rory was supposed to be at work filled Lorelai with worry. Nothing good could have caused the sudden opening in her schedule; of that Lorelai was sure.

That worry grew into dread when, on her way to the porch, she noticed that the door to the garage had been left ajar. If her motherly instincts were right, she was about to walk into Shakespeare-approved levels of emotional distress, because there was only one thing that Rory could be looking for in there.

The Logan Box.

In true Lorelai Gilmore style, Rory had refused to get rid of everything that reminded her of Logan, arguing that they'd been together for so long that she'd be all but possessionless, if she made a bonfire out of everything he'd ever seen or touched. So, instead, she'd shoved everything into a huge cardboard box, labelled with his name on the top, and (upon realizing that her closet was too small for the final product) stashed it all away in the garage.

In the seven years that followed, she'd only tried opening that box twice - one in the search for a misplaced dress, and the other in the hopes that she'd be able to prove to herself that she'd healed.

Both attempts had ended with Rory crying on the bathroom floor after drinking too much tequila (and God knows what else), sobbing as she told her mom that she hated him for not loving her.

In Lorelai's opinion, that amounted to three times too many that Logan had reduced Rory to a puddle of snot and tears on the bathroom floor, and she wished - like a mother often does - that she could make her daughter forget that he'd ever existed.

But she couldn't, and truth be told, even if she could, she wouldn't. She was far from a hopeless romantic (in fact, she liked to think that she was the opposite of that), but even she had to hold onto the hope that one day Rory would look back at her memories from those three years with fondness, acknowledging Logan's role in shaping the person that she'd grown up to become. Lorelai herself struggled with that; she hated that the playboy who broke her baby girl's heart had changed her, and she hated even more that some of those changes had been for the better.

So, instead of doing the impossible and erasing Rory's pain away, Lorelai would resign to do what was within the realm of possibility. She'd sit with her daughter on the bathroom floor, running her fingers through her hair and drying her tears, listening to her incoherent rants and cursing his very existence. Once it became clear that, however better she might be feeling, Rory was in no shape to crawl back into her bedroom and face the spilled contents of the Logan Box, Lorelai would be the one to bring her a pillow, leaving her to wallow in her misery for just long enough to shove all the contents back into the box and take it back to its rightful place in the garage.

More than a saying, 'out of sight, out of mind' had become a hope.

One that, in the privacy of her own thoughts, Lorelai couldn't find it in herself to hold on to.

Which was why she was surprised when she walked into Rory's old room to find her daughter surrounded by clothes and books and jewellery, clutching her pink Birkin bag like a lifeline as she looked through the pictures from his graduation day.

"Rory?" she called, and her daughter hesitantly peeled her eyes away from a picture of her and Logan sharing a chaste kiss on the Yale courtyard.

Then, Rory smiled at her mother, the brightest smile Lorelai had seen in seven years, and when she spoke, her voice was dreamy and the littlest bit joyful.

"He doesn't hurt anymore."

.x.

Honor dropped the shopping bags on the floor, kicking off her shoes while Logan took off his leather jacket. Buying him a new suit had taken them almost an hour, until they found an Armani piece that he actually liked and she considered good enough to appease their mother. Then, seeing as he was in such a good mood, she'd dragged him along as she looked for the perfect dress for that night - and the Ferragamos to go with it.

His light-heartedness hadn't subdued throughout the morning, not even after their shopping trip officially turned into running errands in preparation for the funeral. They hadn't talked about it, but she knew that the sharp upturn in his mood was a direct result of having spent the night with Rory.

"So, Baby Brother, how do you feel about using some of Dad's Macallan to fix me a Manhattan?"

Her suggestion was met with Logan's first deadly glare of the day, and he let out an impatient sigh before replying, "That's _sinful_ , Honor."

"More sinful than shooting it?"

Logan rolled his eyes. Years earlier, he'd sneaked a bottle of Macallan to one of his 'sub-parties' in the pool house. When Mitchum walked in to see Logan and his friends doing shots with his eight thousand-dollar whiskey, he got angrier than Logan had ever seen him, and after all the guests were gone, Honor had been able to hear every word of his reprimand, all the way from her bedroom.

Aside from having to kiss his brand-new Nintendo 64 goodbye, Logan was grounded for _months_ , and although his late teens and early twenties were filled with much bigger screw-ups, _that_ was the moment of absolute stupidity that Honor seemed to have chosen to never let him live down.

"Fine. But may the records show that I'm doing this under protest."

She gave him a radiant smile and they walked to the living room together, Honor gushing about his bartending skills while he tried to dismiss her praises. He headed straight for the bar cart, and she plopped down on the couch and lit a cigarette, her feet propped up on the coffee table.

"Mom's gonna kill you," he said, without even turning around to look at her. Shira had, once again, decided to quit smoking, which mean that cigarettes were supposedly banned from the house, and Honor was blatantly breaking the rules.

Sometimes, he was convinced that the only difference between him and his sister was that _she_ worried about getting caught.

"Oh, please. I bet she's been living off Moët and Marlboros all week."

Logan laughed, handing his sister her drink and sitting on the armchair with his own glass of scotch. She studied him for a few seconds, once again marvelling at how _happy_ he seemed to be, especially when compared to how gloomy and irritable he'd been all week.

"You know that I love you with all my heart, right?"

He looked at her, knowing exactly where she wanted that conversation to go. He'd be annoyed, if he wasn't so surprised that it'd taken her all morning to bring up that subject.

"I know."

"And you know how I've never tried to meddle in your love life? Even when you slept with all my friends, or when you were dumb enough to break up with Rory, or...- Well, the whole thing with Chloe, to be honest." She smiled at him. Unlike their mother, she had nothing against her brother's ex-fiancée, except for the fact that she knew they weren't getting married for the right reasons. She'd never bought his lies about being in love with her, and she'd even overheard him telling Colin that he knew she was only with him for his black Amex. But he insisted on telling his family that he was happy, and their mother was so openly against their relationship that Honor had never found it in herself to tell him that he deserved more. "You remember that, right?"

"I do."

"Good. 'Cause I'm cashing in thirty years' worth of meddling rights, and you'd better listen to me."

"I'm listening."

She flicked her ashes in the ashtray on the end table, giving him a stern look. When she spoke, her tone was just as grave as her expression, and her words sounded almost ominous.

"Tread carefully."

.x.

Lorelai wasn't stupid.

She may not have had the chance to get the Ivy League education that Rory had, but frankly, that was more because she was too busy having a baby to graduate from the pretentious high school that would have gotten her into Yale. And she was the first to admit that she wasn't as freakishly smart as her daughter - then again, who was?

But none of that meant, in any way, shape or form, that she was stupid. Especially when Rory was involved.

Standing on the doorway to Rory's room, seeing her daughter surrounded by memories of _him_ , she knew that there was only one thing that could have caused her heart to magically mend itself, after seven years failing to do so: Logan must have decided to come back from the dead.

Still, she wasn't prepared to hear her daughter say, between bites of the hamburger she'd brought from Luke's, that he'd left her a voicemail on Wednesday, asking her to come over to his parents' house for dinner, and that, instead of ignoring his message or making a pro/con list that would have turned against him, Rory's reaction was to get in her car and drive all the way to Hartford on a whim, simply because he'd asked her to.

Lorelai tried to hide her disapproval of Rory's subservience, but Rory knew her mother way too well to overlook the way her lips pursed slightly, or how she seemed to be struggling to keep her thoughts to herself.

"I know I shouldn't have gone," Rory admitted, voicing Lorelai's thoughts with that astounding precision that only they were capable of. "But he sounded so apologetic on the phone, and I...- I guess I got curious."

"Curious enough to drive an hour and a half just to find out what he wanted?" Lorelai asked, her tone sounding a little more challenging than she'd planned, and Rory gave her a sad smile in reply.

"Wouldn't you have done the same, if it was Dad?"

Lorelai's reply was a frustrated sigh. She hated that her daughter was still so tightly wrapped around Logan's finger that she'd unquestioningly give in to his demands, but she hated it even more that it'd taken her so little to pull the Christopher card. She knew that her own relationship history didn't give her much room to talk, and she was well aware of the similarities between Rory's relationship with Logan and the one she'd had with the father of her daughter. But she also knew how horrible it was to realize that the closure that she and Chris had spent decades hoping for wasn't the one they needed, and it killed her to watch her daughter make the same mistakes she did, hanging onto the hope that she'd be lucky enough to get a different ending.

"I'm not sure your dad and I are such a good yardstick, sweetie."

"But you would have."

"Yes," she admitted. It wasn't like she'd never driven to Boston for less than noble reasons, and there was no point in lying about it when Rory knew a huge chunk of the truth. "I would."

Rory smiled at her. She knew how hard it could be for her mom to admit to things that could be detrimental for whatever point she was trying to make, and she appreciated the honesty.

"He apologized. A lot. Then we talked. Yelled. Then talked some more."

"Did you at least get to slap him?"

"Well, no." Rory laughed. "I wanted to, but even without any slapping involved, I think we're good. I understand his side, and it looks like he understands mine, so... It feels like we're on the right track, or something."

"So, he made you drive all the way to Hartford just so he could apologize?"

"Well... that was his excuse, but no, not really."

Lorelai narrowed her eyes at her daughter. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the most logical explanation for why Rory was still in Connecticut was that she'd _slept_ in Connecticut, and she'd find it really hard to keep her thoughts to herself if Rory revealed that the whole thing had just been an elaborate booty call.

"Please, tell me you didn't have sex with him."

Rory felt her cheeks burning. She should have imagined that her mother would figure everything out right off the bat, but she'd hoped she'd get a little more control over the pacing of that conversation.

"Please, don't get mad."

"Rory!"

"Mom! Please! I told you not to get mad!"

"I'm not mad, Rory! I'm...-" Lorelai sighed, not knowing what to say. 'Disappointed' might have been a good word, if it wasn't such a cliché. She was disappointed that her daughter had, yet again, fallen for his act, disappointed that Rory was trying to act like it wasn't a big deal, and most of all, disappointed because she knew that she was in no position to judge.

God only knew how many times she'd slept with Chris, even though she knew it would be the worst possible decision.

"I don't know what to say," she confessed. "Did you at least get to talk about it afterwards?"

"We did, this morning."

"And...?"

Rory hesitated, sipping at her milkshake while she debated on whether she wanted to open that can of worms. On the one hand, Logan's accidental confession was _huge_ , and her mother would definitely be able to help her sort out its possible implications. But she felt like she had to figure out some things by herself before she could talk to someone about Logan's lingering feelings for her.

So, instead of giving Lorelai the play-by-play of their breakfast, as she normally would, Rory chose to just say, "And... nothing. He was halfway through a rant about how we have _the worst_ timing, and then his sister showed up."

.x.

"Honor." Logan looked at his sister, his serious expression a perfect match for hers. "When have I ever been anything but careful?"

She laughed, taking a long drag of her cigarette. "I mean, sure, if by 'being careful' you mean 'somehow managing to never get a girl pregnant by accident'. But what about all those near-death experiences? Or that appalling criminal record? Or, better yet-"

"Okay, I get it," he interrupted her, his tone slightly more annoyed than she'd expected. "I'm reckless and irresponsible and there's no way I won't fuck this up. Is that what you're trying to say?"

"Of course not! I'm just saying, you've never been too big on considering the consequences _before_ you take a leap, but right now, you might want to hold off on diving head-first, at least until you know how deep that pool is. I love Rory, and I'm over the moon to see you so happy, but, Logan...- Condoms can't protect you from catching feelings."

"And there aren't any casts that can mend a broken heart," he added, earning a sympathetic smile from her. That kind of statement was never made if not by experience, and while there was a part of her that had once hoped that he'd someday get to know the woes and joys of true love, that didn't change the fact that he was her precious baby brother, and she'd felt his grief over his breakup with Rory almost as if it was her own.

"No amount of Jack Daniels and coke, either," she added.

"I would know." He sighed bitterly, leaning his head back against the backrest and staring at the ceiling as his mind once again went through the hazy memories of the first two years post-Rory. His downward spiral had been dramatic, fuelled both by the need to find something that could take her place and the desire to feel like the person he was before her - and what better way to feel like the old Logan than by blowing thousands of dollars on cocaine and taking a new girl home every night?

He'd been well on the way to crashing and burning, and Honor was the only person who noticed it in time to drag his sorry ass into a therapist's office, threatening to get their parents involved if she found any reason to suspect that he was slacking off.

Not that she had ever expected - or even wanted - Logan to rise from the ashes as a new, straight-as-a-ruler man. And proof of that lied in the way she nudged his arm with her shoulder, offering him her cigarette with a small smile and an apologetic, "I can't do much better than this right now."

Logan smiled back at her, declining her offer with a head shake. He'd tried smoking a few times, back in high school, when a pack of Marlboros and boxed wine were the coolest, most rebellious things a guy could own, but overall, he'd never been all that impressed by the experience. The lingering smell was too bad, the taste too unpleasant, the buzz too unnoticeable.

But his lack of desire to give nicotine another chance didn't stop him from giving his sister a mischievous look, flashing her his best up-to-no-good smile as he said, "I can, if you're up for it."

Honor smiled back at him, with an impish smile that put his to shame. She'd worry about him later, she decided; for now, she'd just enjoy spending time with her incorrigible little brother who, sixteen long years later, still kept an Altoids tin filled with weed on his bedside table.

"Mom's gonna kill us when she finds out."

Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow she'd be a sister, a mother, a role model.

"You mean, _if_ she finds out"

Today, she was just the big sister in yet another installment of 'you and me versus the world'.

.x.

"I need to tell you something else," Rory said, dipping a french fry in her vanilla milkshake, and Lorelai caught herself thinking that Luke ( _and_ Taylor) would have an aneurism at that sight. "But I need you to promise me that you'll let me talk before you freak out."

Lorelai sighed. It seemed that nothing good could ever come from a preamble like that, and she couldn't help but worry about what might have happened, during Rory's dinner with Logan, to warrant such an opening.

"I can try," she replied. "But I reserve the right to judge."

"Fine," Rory conceded, deciding that there wasn't much to judge, anyway. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she considered the hardest conversation of the day, and then announced, "Logan invited me over because apparently, Mitchum talked him into offering me a job."

"What, is Logan the head of the 'Daddy knows best' club, now?" Lorelai asked, unable to keep the sarcasm off her voice.

"Looks like it," Rory said, remembering all the things he'd told her about his dad, over dinner and breakfast. She didn't know exactly how it'd happened, and she might never give in to the need to ask for details, but she did know that their relationship had become far less strained than it used to be, and that he'd grown to respect Mitchum's opinion much more than he let on. "Anyway, he's taking over the family business, and he offered me a position in the Hartford office. It's a _really_ cool job, once in a lifetime kind of opportunity, and I'd get to move closer to home. Maybe even live in Stars Hollow."

"Sweetheart, you know that I'd love to have you closer to home. Hell, I'd start remodelling your bedroom in a heartbeat if you told me you're moving back in, but no matter how many things you add to the 'pro' column, this is still Logan we're talking about."

Rory looked at her mom, trying to find the words to voice a concern that had been bothering her ever since Logan first mentioned the idea of her working for him: in which column should she write his name? He was right; they did work well together, but they were also more than capable of being dysfunctional to the point of counterproductiveness. Would their decade of emotional baggage somehow work to their advantage, keeping them constantly in sync? Or would it be too heavy to let them thrive, condemning them both to the biggest failure of their careers?

She didn't know, and for someone who liked predictability and certainty as much as she did, not knowing was the worst kind of torture.

"I know it's Logan, Mom; I'm just not sure if it's all that bad."

The look Lorelai gave her was almost pitiful, and Rory had to admit that she was surprised by how sensible she sounded when she said, "If the only reason why it'd be any good at all is because you miss him, then yes, it's exactly that bad. This is your career we're talking about, kid."

"But it's not just because I miss him," Rory protested. "It's the kind of job that some people would kill for."

"I know, honey, but the question is, would _you_?"

Rory sighed, frustrated by how she kept coming back to the fact that accepting Logan's offer would be a huge detour in her life plan. Sure, being a book critic was nothing like her lifelong dream of being an international correspondent, but she could at least claim that she'd had enough living off a suitcase for a lifetime, and as long as she still had a desk in a newsroom, she'd be able to fool herself by thinking that one day, her editor would give her a piece that could be considered real journalism.

But after seeing Logan dangle a new, shinier option on her face, she kept thinking that the price she paid to keep that illusion alive was getting much bigger than what she was willing to pay. Her reputation as a ruthless critic who destroyed writers in her reviews had led people in the business to refer to her as 'the Gordon Ramsey of Literature' (a title that, she'd eventually learned to wear like a crown), but it also meant that, more often than not, her assignments were books that she wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot pole, if she'd been given the choice. She missed reading good books, just as much as she missed her mom and her hometown and the feeling that what she was doing meant something, in the grand scheme of things.

"I wouldn't," she admitted. "But I wouldn't have killed to go to Yale, either, and I don't regret it one bit."

Lorelai nodded in acknowledgement. She didn't like the idea of Logan showing up out of the blue and trying to sweep Rory off her feet with a job offer that sounded too good to be true, but she also knew that her daughter was knee-deep in denial about how miserable and frustrated she was at work, and she worried about the consequences that an eye-opening moment - such as a _very tempting_ job offer from her ex - might have.

Rory was too goal-oriented to settle for mediocrity, and Lorelai still remembered the last time she'd found herself without an arrow pointing north.

The mug shot stashed away in the Logan box made sure neither of them would ever forget.

"Looks like you've made up your mind, huh?"

"I guess so."

"Can I just give you some motherly advice, then?" she offered, earning a surprised look from Rory. Ever since the Yale debacle, Lorelai had done her best to refrain from expressing her opinions on Rory's life-changing decisions, only offering her input once it was too late for her daughter to change her mind.

That approach had, for the most part, been working just fine, although she did regret not having told Logan that his girlfriend wasn't ready to become his wife. She could have saved her daughter a lot of heartbreak and pain, if only she'd acted a little more like Emily and a little less like herself.

A bitter, bitter pill to swallow.

"You know that my love-hate thing with Logan has always veered more on the hate side."

"Yeah?"

"And you know that I only want you to be happy."

"I do, but-"

"Shush, 'mother knows best' moment going on here," Lorelai chastised her. "All I'm saying is, if you think Logan will be it for you, then go for it. Take the job. Take all the leaps you can. _Marry_ him, for all I care. Just make sure you won't end up heartbroken and unemployed if things don't work out the way you want them to. And remember," she grinned, "I let you pick your bridesmaid dress when Luke and I got married."

"Mom, no one's said anything about getting married."

 _Yet_ , Lorelai wanted to add. She still believed that Rory would have regretted accepting Logan's proposal, but she'd long since changed her mind about _why_. Seven years earlier, she'd told her daughter that he wasn't The One, that she wouldn't have hesitated in saying yes if he was; now, she was sure that he was the right guy, at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

But if her newest assessment was right, Lorelai was sure that it was just a matter of time before they decided that their unexpected reunion was a sign that those holdbacks were out of the picture. And once they did...

She could almost hear the wedding bells.

.x.

The guest bedroom on the third floor, with its bay window overlooking the driveway, had always been their go-to place whenever they planned on engaging in activities that their parents would frown upon - from curling up with first editions borrowed from Mitchum's office to smoking entire packs of cigarettes stolen from Shira's nightstand. It was there that Honor gave her brother her version of The Talk - the most brutally honest, oddly useful conversation about sex that he'd ever had - and where, for years to come, Logan would put her sisterly advice to good use with girls from school and daughters of family friends.

It was only natural, then, that after a quick stop in his bedroom to retrieve the Altoids tin from its place on his bedside table, they'd end up in that room, sitting on the bay window bench, sharing a moment of peace in what was bound to be one of the hardest days of their lives.

"I have a question," Logan announced, peeling his eyes away from the lawn to look at his sister, who met his statement with a laugh.

"It's not a philosophical question, is it? 'Cause I don't think I'm high enough for those, yet."

"It's not _philosophical_ ," he replied, feigning impatience. "It's about Dad."

"About Dad?" she repeated, her confusion sounding so legitimate that it was almost comical.

"Yeah, I...-" He sighed, taking a second to recollect his thoughts. "Do you think this is what he had in mind?"

"I'm pretty sure Dad would kill us if he caught us smoking weed in the house."

Logan laughed. "Oh, I know that. I meant Rory and I." He hesitated, glancing outside the window, regretting that he'd brought up that subject. "Do you think he was trying to get us back together?"

It was Honor's turn to hesitate. A few years earlier, the answer would have been obvious - Mitchum just wasn't the type of man who had the time or the energy to worry about who his son was dating. But things changed when Chloe became a part of the picture, and Honor had witnessed enough conversations between her parents to know that they'd have jumped at the opportunity to break off their son's engagement, if they weren't afraid that their interventions would result in Logan cutting them off his life entirely.

Still, she found it hard to believe that their dad would have gone to such great lengths just to give Logan a glimpse of a second chance, especially when she considered that no one, not even the great Mitchum Huntzberger, could possibly be able to time their own death with so much precision.

"I don't think that's what he wanted," she replied. "But I'm sure he knew it was inevitable."

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm posting this a day earlier because this is one of my favourite chapters so far, and I was so excited that I just couldn't wait until tomorrow! So let me know what you think!

I'd also like to address the subject of Logan and drugs, which I've explored a little bit more in this chapter. I know this is a bit of an unorthodox portrayal, _but._ The first scene with Logan I've ever watched was the one where he and Rory are standing on the scaffolding and she makes a comment about how high they are ("I meant off the ground"), and to me, that whole dialogue implies that, (a) she's assuming (or even aware) that he does/has done drugs, and (b) she's right. Also, back when I first started plotting this fic, Tove Lo's _Habits_ was playing nonstop on the radio, and it felt so perfect for my vision of Logan that I couldn't resist building a background on top of it.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and once again, thank you all for the support (there's nothing better than to wake up to lots of reviews and new followers!).

See you all next week!


	5. Requiem for the Devil

**Chapter 4 - Requiem for the Devil**

 _Mitchum Huntzberger, one of the most influential figures in the publishing world as the CEO of the Huntzberger Publishing Group, died on Monday at his home in Hartford, Connecticut. He was 62._

 _His death was confirmed by his son, Logan Huntzberger, who declined to comment on the cause of death._

 _Mr. Huntzberger was born on May 25, 1953, in Manhattan. His father, Elias, was CEO of the family's company, from which he retired in 1998. His mother, Annabeth, was a member of the D.A.R. and a notable philanthropist._

 _In addition to his wife, Shira, whom he married in 1979, Mr. Huntzberger is survived by a daughter, Honor McNealy, a son, Logan Huntzberger, and two grandsons._

The New York Times - _Obituaries, February 3rd, 2015_

.x.

Logan stepped down from the pulpit feeling strangely raw. His eulogy had consisted of a bunch of empty words, strung together in just the right way to paint Mitchum as a loving father, who'd offered him nothing but his unconditional support. But as he faced the black-clad attendees, lying through his teeth about how much his father would be missed, he realized that nothing, not even the fact that he hadn't meant a word he'd said, could exempt him from the emotional toll of that whole situation.

Perfect or not, his dad was never coming back home.

Unloving, merciless. Missed.

Gone.

He walked back to his seat between Honor and Shira, clutching his sister's hand as he tried his best to keep the tears at bay. Crying was unbecoming, unacceptable, an outrageous display of weakness, and it would make the day of the reporters who were standing by the church doors, hoping that the funeral of the legendary media mogul Mitchum Huntzberger would somehow earn them a front page, a cover article, a post worth a million views.

Honor leaned in, whispering something in his ear, but he was too distraught to listen. He didn't hear a single word of his mother's eulogy either, though he didn't need to be paying attention to know that she was just spewing a million lies about what a great husband Mitchum had been.

Not a word would be said about working eighteen hours a day or sleeping with all of his assistants, just like Logan hadn't mentioned all the missed birthdays, or all the times he'd woken up in a hospital bed to find out that his own father couldn't be bothered to leave the office.

"He pushed me to become the man I am today," he'd said. He was a talented writer, he knew that, but that phrasing had been particularly clever, even by his standards. "And I'll always be grateful for it."

Bullshit. A huge, flaming pile of bullshit.

Or maybe not.

.x.

The two glasses of scotch he had as soon as he walked into the house did wonders to lift his spirits, at least enough to make him feel like he was ready to face the hundreds of people who'd shown up for the wake. For the next hour or so, he greeted business partners and poker rivals, golf buddies and trophy wives, gracefully accepting their condolences and silently praying that no one would invite him out on a stroll down Memory Lane.

He felt tired, drained, spent, and just as he was starting to wonder if anyone would miss him if he disappeared, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see Rory, who looked positively _stunning_ in a knee-length, lacey dress, her hair pulled up in a sleek ponytail.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked, offering him an amicable smile and her glass of champagne.

He smiled back at her; he just couldn't help it. Honor was right, she was exactly the kind of presence he needed - someone who could make him forget his surroundings for a few minutes at a time.

"I was just thinking of how much I hate these parties." He sipped at her drink and handed the glass back to her, leaning against the wall and wishing he could convey how uncomfortable he felt. His usual contempt for that kind of social event barely scratched the surface of his current feelings - he just couldn't understand why no one around him seemed to think that a funeral should be an occasion for mourning.

"They're not that bad." She followed his lead and leaned against the wall at his side, their bodies so close that their arms were touching. "I mean, Mozart, open bar, cheese puffs..." She chuckled. "Little net bags full of those Jordan almonds."

He laughed, glancing sideways at her. He'd lost count of how many times he'd revisited the memories of their first dance, kicking himself for being stupid enough to lose that girl.

He knew it shouldn't, but it made him happy to see that she also remembered it.

"Not nearly as fun when I'm the one paying for it." He reached for her glass again. He'd never been that big a fan of champagne; to him, it tasted like pretentiousness and affectation, like the high society life that he loved to despise. That was one of the many things that changed when Rory walked into his life, imbuing it with the weight of truly cherishable memories - the day when he realized he was in love with her, their first kiss, the many occasions when he could have sworn they were infinite.

She laced her fingers through his, resting her head on his shoulder, and for a few moments, they were more than happy to stand there, leaning against the living room wall, watching the guests around them while _Clair de Lune_ played in the background.

"Do you hate it less now?" she asked, tilting her head in just the right way to allow their eyes to meet. Logan was painfully aware of the few short inches that separated him from the blissful oblivion of losing himself in her, but instead of giving in to the urge to close that distance, he looked away, staring at the Velázquez across the room like it held all the answers to all the questions ever asked.

"I don't think I hate it at all."

.x.

The standard-issue iPhone ringtone emanating from Logan's pocket interrupted their moment of tranquillity, and Logan groaned when he saw Finn's name on the screen. He could feel his bubble of carefully constructed buoyancy thinning out with each repetition of that annoyingly chirpy chime, and he knew that Finn would likely just keep calling until he picked up the phone. So, with an exasperated sigh, he excused himself and headed out to the courtyard.

Rory entertained the idea of staying put until he came back, if anything because she was surrounded by people she didn't know all that well. The guest list for the wake seemed to be comprised of several editors and publishers and all sorts of people who were well above her pay grade, and as far as she could tell, she was the only reporter invited.

She briefly wondered if this would have been her life, had she married Logan. Would she have spent so many nights amongst these people that she'd feel as comfortable around them as Logan himself seemed to be? Or would she prefer to hide out in a separate room, surrounding herself with the wives of these powerful men, discussing gardening techniques and parenting tips, instead of international politics and business acquisitions? Logan had always promised he'd treat her like an equal, but she remembered way too well how patronisingly he'd acted at times, once he started working for his dad. Would _he_ be the one to send her to play with her dolls while the adults held important conversations?

Not that there was any point in dwelling in those questions, of course. She'd rejected his proposal, along with everything that came with being Logan Huntzberger's wife - and as it turned out, he came back seven years later with a much better offer, one that would grant her a position amongst his peers, whether he wanted it or not.

But she wasn't one of them yet, so instead of standing alone against the wall (she was, after all, starting to feel like the rejected girl at prom in a teen movie), she downed the rest of her champagne and headed for the bar, which was set up in what she could only describe as 'the _other_ living room'. She was just a few feet away from her destination when she heard a familiar voice calling her name, and she spun on her heels to see her grandmother walking towards her.

"Rory! What a surprise!" Emily hugged her, seemingly torn between being shocked and elated to see her granddaughter at Mitchum's funeral - and more importantly, in the same house, at the same time, as Logan. "I didn't know you'd be here tonight."

"It was kind of a last-minute decision," Rory replied, deciding to stick with a censored version of the truth. "I ran into Honor earlier and she insisted I should come."

Emily's smile faltered upon learning that the invitation hadn't come from Logan himself, but she wasn't about to give up hope just yet. The way she saw it, if they were ready to be in the same room at such an emotionally-charged time, then they were more than ready to get reacquainted and - who knew - maybe even rekindle their old flame.

"Were you at the church?" she asked, in that politely curious tone that she'd spent years perfecting. Rory's reply was an uninterested hum that would have earned her at least a deadly glare, but Emily decided to let it slide, for the time being. "What a _beautiful_ service, wasn't it? Those eulogies... I haven't heard anything that heartbreaking in years."

Rory merely stared at her grandmother. She was sure that nothing said during Mitchum's funeral was as heartfelt as it seemed to be, but she had to admit that she was nearly brought to tears by Shira, of all people, when she talked about how she'd lost her husband, her companion, her fortress, and confessed to a church full of people that life without Mitchum was nothing but a half-life, where it seemed that nothing would ever feel as good, as fun, as breathtaking again.

Rory could relate to that. Way, _way_ too much.

"And Logan..." Emily droned on, catching Rory's attention again. "Poor thing; losing his father so soon after that whole thing with his fiancée - what was her name, again? Courtney? Kylie?"

"Chloe," Rory offered, surprised that her grandmother seemed to know the name of _two_ non-Kim Kardashians. Her own knowledge of the name of Logan's now-infamous fiancée, on the other hand, was no surprise at all. Not only was she sure she'd heard that name, uttered in appalled disdain, in at least one Friday night dinner, but she'd also spent a fair share of the afternoon googling Logan and his career, only to be bombarded, every so often, by pictures of him and blonde bombshell Chloe Saint-Claire.

"Oh, right. _Chloe_." Emily scrunched up her nose in distaste, as though she felt that even the girl's name was tacky. "Can you imagine it, calling off an engagement only months before the wedding?"

Rory was about to point out that her mother had called off a wedding on much shorter notice, but before she could say anything, she felt an arm around her shoulders, and Emily's triumphant smile was enough to leave her mortified.

"Ah, Ace, there you are," Logan said, seemingly oblivious to Emily's blatant delight - although Rory knew him too well to believe that. "Emily." He beamed at the older Gilmore, removing his arm from Rory's shoulder so he could properly greet her grandmother. "Thank you so much for coming."

"Of course, Logan. Shira is such a dear friend of mine; we just _had_ to come."

Logan's smile grew from strictly courteous to slightly amused, though only Rory would be able to notice the difference. Emily and Shira may have tolerated each other in a very distant past, but after the fateful dinner in which Logan introduced Rory to his parents, the animosity between them grew to the point where he wasn't entirely sure how the Gilmores had made it to the guest list for Mitchum's funeral.

Then again, that kind of overwhelming need to save face was something that he'd never been able to fully comprehend.

"Well, I'm sure I speak for us all when I say that your presence is greatly appreciated," he replied, although even he couldn't tell how truthful that statement was. "But I'm afraid I must steal Rory from you, if you don't mind. I promised I'd introduce her to Brian Calloway, and it looks like he's leaving some time soon."

"Oh, of course, I must get going, then," Emily stammered, her smile disappearing altogether, at the mention of a young, available bachelor with a last name less desirable than Logan's. Then, seemingly deciding that everything wasn't lost until vows had been exchanged, she said, "It was lovely to see you again, Logan, in spite of the circumstances. Perhaps you'd like to join us for dinner next Friday?"

"I'd love to," he replied. It was the most honest he'd been all night, with the exception of those few moments alone with Rory. "I'll have my assistant call you on Monday for the details."

The look Emily gave her granddaughter was the opposite of discreet, and Rory was almost expecting an awed comment about how important he sounded when he talked like that. Instead, Emily just assured him she'd be expecting the call on Monday, then excused herself and got back on her way to the bar, leaving the two of them alone.

"She's picking china patterns as we speak, you know that?" Rory scolded Logan, facing him with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Let the woman dream, Ace." He draped his arm around her shoulders again, noticing that this time, she all but melted into his embrace, and led her back towards the dining room. "A week from now, I'll be taking someone else to the Valentine's Day Gala, and all her hopes and dreams will be duly crushed. I promise."

"When did you get so heartless?" she asked, staring at him in disbelief.

"Probably around the time when your grandma decided it would be acceptable to try to set me up with my ex-girlfriend," he replied, in an acid tone that did nothing to hide his discontentment.

Rory was just about to point out just how much he'd contributed to that whole situation when Logan opened the door that led to the kitchen, and she found herself following him through the swarm of caterers and waiters, stopping on her tracks when they reached the ornate doors that seemed to lead outside.

"Logan!" she called, stopping him just as he was reaching for the doorknob. "Where the hell are we going?"

"We're getting out of here," he replied, turning around to look at her like he couldn't believe she was asking such a stupid question.

It hadn't occurred to him, until the moment he saw her dumbfounded look, that Rory had probably never felt the need to sneak out of her own house just to avoid unnecessary confrontation with her mother.

That realization was yet another reason why being in that house made him feel seventeen again, and it was because of that exact feeling that he'd spent the whole night praying for a glimpse of freedom. But when Finn called him, asking if he'd like to join the gang for a night of drunken debauchery, he caught himself declining the offer.

After all, if his current surroundings were too cheerful for his mood, what could be said of anything involving Colin and Finn?

On the other hand, he craved for a few hours of introspection, and when he walked back into the house, the hubbub that greeted him made his annoyance grow into full-on restlessness - a feeling that had only been aggravated by Emily's inappropriate joy at seeing him with Rory. He hadn't even noticed where he was going until Rory called him out, but if there was one thing that he knew for sure, it was that he needed to get out of that house before he could change his mind about it.

"I don't wanna be here," he whispered, looking at her again, and the amount of pain that she saw in his eyes was enough to break her heart. "I _can't_ be here."

"Okay, then." She smiled at him, fighting the urge to step closer and wrap her arms around his waist. "And where, exactly, are we going?"

"I...-" He looked down, and if Rory didn't know better she'd have described his expression as 'sheepish'. "I didn't think that far."

Rory nodded, racking her brain for ideas. She'd spent fourteen years coming to Hartford at least once a week, not to mention the few months when she'd _lived_ there, but she couldn't think of anything. All the places she knew in the city were the ones where he'd taken her when they were together, and those could be divided in two categories: the swanky bars where he and his friends would spend thousands of dollars partying and getting wasted, and the upscale restaurants where he'd take her on unreasonably fancy dates.

She had a feeling that he wasn't in the mood for either of those.

"Do you have the key to the pool house?" she asked, gracing him with that devilish smile that he _loved_ seeing on her. Then, with an innocent, doe-eyed look, she added, "I mean, you _do_ have a pool house, right?"

"Oh, honey. _Our pool house_ has a pool house."

Logan watched her smile grow even wider and more radiant, and Rory grabbed a bottle of champagne from the nearest counter, ignoring the look that she received from the waitress, who'd clearly been planning to use it to fill the tray of flutes that she'd been setting up.

How could he _not_ love that girl?

.x.

"Can you shut the blinds, please?" Logan asked, locking the doors behind them and turning on the lights. He had to admit, it wasn't exactly wise to use a room surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows as a hideout, but he sure as hell wasn't about to take Rory into the bedroom, and the only reason why they were there in the first place was because he couldn't think of a better location.

Thankfully, they had two layers of curtains available, which gave Rory plenty to work with on her quest to ensure their privacy, while Logan busied himself with the thermostat (which, if she was being honest, he'd set up for a little higher than she'd like) and went through the kitchen cabinets in the search for suitable glasses. He wasn't all that opposed to drinking champagne right out of the bottle, but if there had ever been a night when he deserved to at least _try_ to take the least depressing route, that was it.

"This place reminds me of your apartment in New Haven," she said, taking in the 'bachelor pad' feel of the room, complete with the exposed brick wall in the kitchen and the Scandinavian furniture. All that was missing was the myriad of trinkets and a telescope or two, and they might as well be twenty-two again.

"Well, that's where half of this furniture came from." He looked at her, just in time to see her kick off her shoes and sit on the couch, and it was impossible to keep from smiling at the familiar sight of Rory lounging against the polka-dot cushions. "Including the bed," he added, his voice dripping with innuendo.

"Must you always work blue, Huntzberger?" She gave him a fake exasperated look and he laughed, carefully taking a pair of champagne coupes from a shelf. He had a vague recollection of those glasses having belonged to his grandmother, and he knew that his mother would kill him if she knew that he'd so much as _touched_ them.

"I hope that was a rhetorical question." He closed the cabinet door, walked back to the living room, and handed Rory the glasses before taking off his jacket, throwing it on the floor like he didn't care that it had probably cost more than her entire outfit.

Because, truth be told – he didn't.

Not that Rory would complain about his lack of concern for his belongings, especially after he took off his tie and unbuttoned his collar, then proceeded to throw his cufflinks into a crystal ashtray.

"Enjoying the view, Gilmore?" he asked, rolling up his sleeve, his cocky smirk suggesting that he knew exactly how sexy he looked when he embraced the 'casual' in 'business casual'.

She gave him an annoyed look, but a glimpse of black letters on his left forearm caught her attention just as she was about to reply and, instead of the witty remark she had in mind, she found herself asking, "When did you get a tattoo?"

Logan laughed, pulling his sleeve up to his elbow, revealing the words _in omnia paratus,_ written in Roman letters on his forearm. "I was just starting to wonder how long it'd take for you to notice," he said, sitting on the couch. "I mean, you've seen me _naked_ and all."

"I wasn't exactly paying attention to your forearm, though." She smiled at him, filling the glasses with champagne. "So, what's the story behind it?"

"There's no story behind it." He shrugged, taking one of the champagne glasses. "The day before I left for California, Colin and Finn threw me a farewell party and...- Fast forward a few hours and we're totally hammered and getting all emotional and all, and one of us came up with the idea of getting matching tattoos. When we ran it by Rose and Juliet, they just said that girls do it all the time, so why shouldn't we, and next thing I know, we're sitting at a tattoo parlour, drunkenly proofreading _in Latin_ and arguing about which font we liked best, while the tattoo artist is sketching up these tiny umbrellas for the girls."

"That sounds exactly like what I'd expect from you," she said, with an amused smile.

"Well, if anything, it was a very suitable way to kickstart the next seven years of questionable decisions." He laughed. "But what about you, Ace?" he asked, before she had the chance to question him about what kind of decisions he'd referred to. As much as he enjoyed the honest, taboo-free conversations they'd been having for the past two days, he wasn't ready to discuss his regrets - not tonight, not when he craved lightness and carefreeness. "How's life been treating you?"

.x.

They spent the next hour and a half getting to know each other again, while talking about everything that came to their minds. Her horror stories about her life on the road with Obama's campaign trail blended seamlessly with his anecdotes about all the amazing places he'd visited during his latest trip to South America, and she somehow found a way to segue from that topic into a rant about how she'd found a new guilty pleasure in the shape of Taylor Swift's new album. Nothing seemed to be off-limits, nothing felt too personal to be shared, and they were both convinced that they only kept their relationship history off the table because their conversation didn't lead them there.

Talking to Rory was easy, Logan decided; just as easy as forgetting that the world as he knew it was falling apart outside the shelter of that pool house.

But all things must come to an end, and for Logan's moment of blissful denial, that ending came with the loud banging on the door and his mother's voice calling his name.

His immediate reaction was a dramatic sigh and eyeroll combo, but his annoyance didn't stop him from getting up from the couch and marching to the door, leaving behind a startled Rory. She wasn't used to seeing him making mature choices, least of all when those involved confrontation with his family, and it seemed that she kept getting caught off guard by that new side of him.

"There you are!" Shira said, as soon as he opened the door, not bothering with pleasantries of any sort. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"And yet, it took you ninety minutes to find me," he replied, in the same flat, emotionless voice he'd used with Rory, during their argument in the foyer, on the night before – with the notable difference that with Rory, his choice of words was meant to be appeasing, whereas with his mother, it seemed that incensing her was the whole point of his reply.

"Don't give me that attitude, mister!" Shira scolded him, talking like she was speaking to a bratty six-year-old, and Rory saw him tighten his grip on the doorknob, obviously pissed that she was treating him like a child - although, to be fair, he was acting a bit like one. "And what on Earth do you think you're doing, anyway, hiding out in the pool house?"

"Mom." He gave her a pleading look, although he knew it was a wasted effort. "I buried my father today," he said, and the hurting in his voice and the defeated way he slumped his shoulders made Rory feel something akin to physical pain - but not as much as the fact that Shira seemed impervious to her son's grief. "I'm sure your friends will understand that I'm not in the mood for a party."

"Unless 'a party' means drinking champagne and getting it on with one of your whores, it would seem." She gave Rory a disgusted look, as if she _needed_ to add insult to the injury. "Now, get yourself together and come back to the house. You have guests to attend to."

"No," Rory replied, before she could stop herself. "He doesn't."

Rory had no idea what had prompted her to jump in his defence - she'd never even jumped in _her own_ defence, not when Shira Huntzberger was involved - but before she knew what she was doing, she'd walked over to the door, and soon she was standing at Logan's side, her arms crossed over her chest, giving Shira her best intimidating glare.

More than an irrational need to protect him, Rory felt the same kind of outrage she'd felt when Logan had that accident in Costa Rica, after she found out that Shira was hiding away at a spa and Mitchum refused to visit his son. She'd grown up with a mother who'd never hesitated in doing everything in her power to make her happy - a mother who, a few hours earlier, had declared her support for whatever relationship Rory might want to have with her ex-boyfriend, although that was the last thing she wanted for her kid.

She'd never grow used to the Huntzberger style of parenting. She refused to.

"Excuse me?" Shira glared daggers at her, and Logan had to admit that he was impressed that Rory didn't seem to be affected by his mother's anger. "I am talking to my _son_."

"A son who's made it very clear that he needs some time to mourn his _dead father_ ," Rory snapped back, before Logan could reply. "Which he hasn't been able to do all week, because while _you_ were hiding away in Martha's Vineyard, he was too busy planning this goddamned party. So, cut him some slack, Shira, and be glad he still cares, because God knows he shouldn't."

"Don't you dare tell me how to treat my son, Gilmore." She spat out Rory's last name, as if she was just a nobody - as if Richard Gilmore wasn't just as successful as Mitchum, as if Emily wasn't the president of the D.A.R. "All his life, all we ever did was 'cut him some slack', and look how _that_ panned out. An ungrateful, entitled, spoiled _child_ , who thinks he deserves an award for showing up." She looked at her son again. "Well, you don't. So, man up, and stop dodging your responsibilities, for a change."

"And what responsibilities would those be, mother? All week, I've done nothing but handle everything that has been sprung up on me. I hopped on a plane as soon as Honor called, I spent a whole day answering the phone and telling one reporter after the other that yes, my father died, thank you very much for your fake condolences. I took over a company that I've _never_ wanted to work for, and when I wasn't too busy helping Honor with this bullshit party, I was attending business meetings with people I'd never met before, and negotiating a multi-million-dollar merger between _me_ and _myself_. So, pray tell, how much more of an adult do you want me to be? What else do you want me to do? You want me to schmooze your guests? That's _your_ responsibility, not mine. _My_ responsibilities start _and end_ with the business contacts, all of which I've already greeted, so now I should be more than free to collect my participation trophy and hide away in the study with my brandy and my Coltrane records and my cigars. I just so happen to hate Coltrane, _or_ brandy, _or_ cigars, and I've always liked the pool house better, so why don't you do us all a favour and leave me the fuck alone with my champagne and my _whore_?" He spat out that last word, disgusted that he was using it to refer to Rory, even though he was just quoting his mother.

He would even have worried about having offended her, if she hadn't taken that as an opportunity to go in for the kill.

"I mean, if there's one thing you've learned from Mitchum..."

Shira gave Rory a murderous look, and Logan stepped in between them, hoping that it'd be enough to keep his mother from jumping at her throat.

"You have guests to attend to, mother," he said, his satisfied smirk making it clear that he loved the opportunity to use her words against her. "Now, have a good night."

With that, he slammed the door between them, leaning against it and all but holding his breath until he heard Shira's heels moving away from the pool house. It was only then that he dared to look at Rory, who looked every bit as astounded as he felt.

"Speechless," he said, his voice breathy as if he'd run a marathon. "Just. Speechless."

* * *

 **A/N:** So, this was the funeral - and boy, was it dramatic.

As usual, thank you so much for your reviews! I loved how last chapter opened up this whole debate on drugs, and some of you had such detailed headcanons, I was blown away!

Don't forget to let me know how you liked this one - and if you caught the part in Logan's rant that makes a scene in Chapter One feel one hell of a lot sadder. (Also, did anyone notice that the chapters have names now? How do you feel about them? Let me know your thoughts! Oh, and by the way - I've made a playlist for this chapter, so if you want to hear it, just ask!) And hey, since we're at it, it's my birthday today, so well-wishes and congratulations are always appreciated.

See you all next week!


	6. Mommy Issues

**Chapter 5 - Mommy Issues**

 _As I sat in my car, staring at Lorelai's house, I mentally rehearsed everything I wanted to say to her. With all the crazy stunts I'd pulled, all the near-death experiences, this was the most nerve-racking situation I'd ever found myself in - which was funny, because I'd never been more certain of anything in my whole life._

 _But how do you tell someone - especially someone like Lorelai Gilmore - that you want to marry her daughter and take her to Palo Alto, California?_

 _That's what I was about to find out._

Logan Huntzberger – _The best years (of our lives)_

.x.

The black Jaguar parked on her driveway was the last thing Lorelai expected to see when she got back home from her breakfast at Luke's, but from the moment she first laid eyes on it, she knew, without a hint of a doubt, who her unexpected visitor was. Still, it was a bit surprising to see that, despite the thirty-degree weather, Logan was sitting on the steps that led to her porch, instead of hiding in his car until she came home.

He got up when she pulled over, giving her a sample of what he undoubtedly considered one of his 'winning' smiles. Having grown up surrounded by rich, entitled boys like him, Lorelai knew that younger, naïver girls would fall at his feet in response to his masterfully employed charm - and she didn't know if she felt more flattered that he seemed to think that she was worth a try, or insulted that he expected her to fall for it.

"I should have known that you were gonna show up, sooner or later," she said, stepping out of the Jeep and slamming the door shut. "And _you_ should have known better than to try to buy me with pie. Or coffee."

"Oh, you mean these?" he asked, gesturing towards the bright pink Weston's box and the two Styrofoam cups that he'd placed on the banister. "These aren't a bribe; they're just a peace offering."

"Semantics." She crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a hard look. "What are you doing here, Logan?"

He hesitated, unsure as to how to answer that question. Going to Stars Hollow had been a rather impulsive decision, motivated by the fact that he'd woken up with a nasty hangover (as one would, after a Saturday night out with Colin and Finn) and an unwavering resolution in the back of his head (for no apparent reason).

The hangover had been fairly easy to handle, with the help of some Advil and one of Finn's magical concoctions, but unlike his headache, the pressing need to pay Lorelai a visit only subdued once he grabbed the keys to his dad's Jaguar and hit the road.

He was halfway through the 40-minute drive when he finally figured out what he was so desperate to say to her, and it wasn't all that hard to understand why his drunken resolution had seemed so important, even in the light of day. But now that she was staring at him, demanding an explanation for his unexpected visit, it all felt so silly that he nearly apologized for coming over.

Instead, he smiled amicably at her and said, "I wanna talk to you, is all."

Lorelai narrowed her eyes at him. As far as she was concerned, they'd never had anything to talk about, even when he and Rory were dating. The way she saw it, Logan had only been interested in one, very specific, facet of Rory's identity - the one that fit best with the life he wanted for himself. But his aristocratic aspirations had no space for Lorelai and her contempt for all things high society, and although they had a somewhat solid starting point (what with their convoluted family relations and all), he'd never truly made an effort to bond with her.

She wouldn't have minded it, if the circumstances were any different. If Logan had never paid her a visit to ask for her help in getting Rory back, or if the thought of sharing the rest of his life with her daughter had never crossed his mind, she wouldn't have cared that it took him _years_ to come to Stars Hollow with Rory for the first time. But that wasn't the case: Logan was one of Rory's most serious boyfriends, the first boy she'd ever lived with, the first who'd made her think of a _forever_ , and he'd once sat in Lorelai's living room and assured her that he felt exactly the same.

And yet, he'd never tried to get to know the most important person in Rory's life.

She had to admit that she resented him a little for it, and her first instinct was to tell him to take his _peace offerings_ and his shiny _Jag_ and get the hell away from her home. But as displeased as she was to see him, she was even more curious to know what he could possibly hope to accomplish by showing up on her doorstep on that Sunday morning.

Plus, the coffee smelled _amazing_.

"If I say I have no interest in anything you have to say; will Luke find you frozen to death on my porch?"

He smiled at her. He'd only decided to wait outside because Babette had intercepted him and sworn that Lorelai would be back soon enough, but he knew full well that he'd never be able to convince her of that.

"I know better than to try to out-stubborn a Gilmore."

"Huh." She grabbed one of the coffees, and he stepped back so she could reach the door. "Come on in, then." She unlocked the door and looked at him again. "And next time, don't forget the ice cream."

.x.

"So," she said, placing the plates and forks on the kitchen table as Logan opened the box of pie. "What do you want, this time?" She sat down on the chair across the table from his. "Another letter convincing Rory to give you a second chance? My blessing in yet another bad decision? A list of all the reasons why you should move on and leave Rory alone?" She paused, the knife hovering ominously over the pie as she looked at him. Her face was the perfect image of cynicism when she said, "Oh, wait. I can give you that one."

"Look, Lorelai..." he began, making it a point not to acknowledge any of her sarcasm. "I'm not your favourite person; I get it. We were just starting to get along when I broke your daughter's heart, and it's my understanding that loving mothers, mythical as they may be, don't often forgive such things. Not that I would know first-hand, of course."

Lorelai gave him an impatient look. He clearly wanted to explore that sense of bonding that stemmed from knowing that someone else's childhood was just as fucked-up as your own - or at the very least, he hoped to flatter her into feeling sorry for him.

Either way, he was failing.

"Logan. Let's make a deal here, okay? I'll listen to whatever you want to say, _if_ you stop trying to charm my socks off. Because it's not working."

Logan looked down at his plate, feeling more embarrassed than he cared to admit. In a way, he felt like this whole conversation was much more difficult than the dinner with Rory ( _and_ the morning after it). At least with Rory, he'd had reasons to believe she was willing to listen to him, while with Lorelai, he'd consider himself lucky if he got to the end of this conversation without being kicked out of the house.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...-" He paused for a brief while, trying to recollect his thoughts. "What I meant to say was, I'm not here to ask for your forgiveness. I know you don't think I deserve it, and frankly, I have no intention of trying to convince you that I do. But I'd like to be a part of Rory's life again, and I'd hate to drive a wedge between you two. So, I figured that you and I might want to work out some kind of a truce."

Lorelai took a large sip of her coffee as she pondered his suggestion. All unnerving flattery and stammering aside, the maturity that transpired from Logan's words (and his whole behaviour, for that matter) was entirely unexpected to her.

"And what if I tell you that I can't do that?" she challenged him, determined to find out just how deep his newfound maturity went. "It's a little too late to withdraw that job offer and unsleep with her, don't you think?"

Logan gave her a confused look. He'd been all but waiting for the moment when Lorelai would bring up his accidental confession from Friday morning, but she'd just let the perfect opportunity go by without so much as mentioning it.

He couldn't help wondering if, for some odd reason, Rory had decided to keep that from her mother, and _why_. Did it mean that Rory felt like his feelings were too much to handle, even with Lorelai's assistance? Was she afraid of the inevitable questions regarding what _she_ felt? Had the subject just not come up, as unrealistic as that possibility seemed?

He'd have to worry about Rory's motivations later, he decided. For now, he had bigger fish to fry.

"Tell me, Lorelai." He cleared his throat, painfully aware of how demanding he'd just sounded. Then, with a sigh, he tried again, "You've been here for all these years, so please, tell me: is she better off without me? Is she happier? Should I- Would I be doing her a favour, if I told her that the past four days have been a mistake? 'Cause if she is- If my presence in her life is doing her more harm than good, then I'd gladly back off."

"Then why don't I believe you?" she asked. More than a perverse need to hurt him (and boy, did he look hurt), she was fuelled by an all-consuming need to find out just how far she could push him.

She knew exactly where all that altruism was coming from - honestly, he was as transparent to her now as Rory had always sworn he was. But she needed to _know_ ; she needed to hear him say, loud and clear, that he still pined for Rory, even after all these years.

 _That_ would give her something she could work with.

"Maybe because breaking up with her and never speaking to her again is kind of the opposite of not hurting her?" he suggested. Owning up to his mistakes was hard (and almost painful), but he knew that Lorelai deserved it, just as much as Rory.

"I understand why you'd think I'm unreliable," he added. "I was too selfish, too proud, and I'll be the first to admit that I didn't deserve her. But I've changed, Lorelai, and I need you to believe me when I say that Rory's happiness is more important to me than anything else."

Lorelai couldn't help feeling a bit sympathetic towards him. The Logan Huntzberger she knew would _never_ put Rory's well-being above his whims, nor would he ever see her happiness as more important than his own, and it was hard not to believe him, when he'd voluntarily marched into the lion's den in pursuit of a prize that even he didn't think he deserved.

"You care about her that much, huh?"

"I love her that much, yes."

Lorelai smiled briefly at him and Logan almost let out a relieved sigh at her friendly gesture.

"You see, kid, that's exactly what worries me." She sighed. She hated being the rational, responsible, pessimistic _adult_ , but it seemed that she had no choice but to be that person. Logan needed her to be - and so did Rory. "I may not have been your biggest fan for all these years, but I do believe that you loved her. The thing is, you've been holding on to this idealized version of her for all these years, and unless you accept that you don't know each other anymore - and that the person you love isn't the person that she _is_ \- you're only setting yourself up for failure. And I can't have that, Logan. I can't see my daughter get hurt by you, _again_ , because you were both too stubborn to give yourselves the chance to fall in love all over again."

"For all it's worth, I do believe you can - fall in love, I mean. But you can't do that unless you're willing to give your relationship the time it needs to grow, just like you did when you first met. And if you aren't...-" She paused, trying not to think about how devastated Rory would be if she and Logan tried and failed again. "Then you should probably walk away now, rather than somewhere down the road."

.x.

A few moments of awkward silence followed Lorelai's declaration, while Logan processed everything she'd said. There was a part of him that was convinced that the answer should be simple, that Rory should be worth all kinds of effort, even if it included taking things slow for a while.

But a bigger part of him was nearly offended at the mere idea of a pacing that didn't involve diving head-first into a relationship with her, after waiting seven years for a second chance. He knew that, strictly speaking, this whole conundrum was his fault, and if he hadn't screwed up by breaking up with her, in the first place, none of this would be happening - but that was a spilled milk kind of situation, and trying to figure out what to do next would be far more productive than dwelling in problems he couldn't fix.

Before he could reach any sort of conclusion, Lorelai's cell phone started vibrating on the table, Rory's name popping up on her screen. She and Logan exchanged a look, both of them knowing that Rory would probably get worried if she didn't take that call.

"She doesn't know you're here, does she?"

"Nope."

Lorelai nodded in acknowledgement, picking up the phone and walking out of the kitchen.

Not that Logan couldn't hear bits and pieces of the conversation, of course. But it didn't make all that much sense to him, anyway, because the whole call seemed to revolve around someone called 'Vicky' and whether she was having fun and when Rory would be dropping her off.

From what he'd been able to hear, Vicky seemed to be a child that Rory was babysitting for some reason - but knowing the Gilmores, he wouldn't be surprised if she turned out to be Lorelai's new dog.

"I gotta say, kid, your timing is impeccable," Lorelai said, walking back into the kitchen. "You missed Rory by just a few minutes, you aware of that?"

"No, I wasn't," he replied, smiling at her as he watched her sit back on her chair.

"Well, you did. But don't worry, she won't be back before lunch, so that gives us a couple more hours. Is there anything else you want to say?"

"I think I'm good." He hesitated, debating with himself just how much he wanted to hear what she'd say in reply to, "You, however, look like you still have a lot to say."

Lorelai smiled brightly at him, the same kind of smile that Rory used when she had a somewhat perverse idea - which usually involved theatre dates or stealing yachts.

Logan didn't know Lorelai all that well, but somehow, he was sure that her idea of 'outrageous' was more closely related to his own than to Rory's.

"Well, I can always shower you with bounties of unsolicited advice," she pondered. "Which would be great, because Rory doesn't appreciate all of my wisdom."

"It's your lucky day, then, because my mom? Pretty sure she'd self-combust if she even _tried_ to give me advice of any kind. Especially about Rory."

Lorelai gave him a look that he could only describe as 'proud'. Then, with an even bigger smile than before, she said, "Now, see, _this_ is how you do bonding."

.x.

Over the next few hours (not to mention a full pint of vanilla ice cream and more than half of the pie), Lorelai and Logan explored the vast, unknown universe of talking to each other. Their childhoods alone provided them with an emotional rollercoaster that ranged from empathetic rage to blatant envy, and while neither of them would ever go so far as to say that Lorelai had it easy, they both agreed that reaching adulthood in that kind of environment was a circle of hell on its own.

From there, the conversation flowed almost seamlessly into stories about Rory, both of them sharing their fondest, most hilarious memories of her, and before they knew it, Lorelai was dragging a reluctant Logan along for a guilt-trip about the aftermath of their breakup.

Granted, Rory had never come nowhere near the type of downwards spiral that he'd experienced - but still, hearing about it from her mother's perspective was nothing short of devastating.

"You know what frustrates me the most?" she asked, getting up from her chair so she could make them more coffee. "You must have figured out, eventually, that you should have never proposed to her when you did."

"You mean at the party, or...-"

"On a broader sense. I mean, a public proposal? To _Rory_? Were you out of your _mind_? But it's not just about that, now, is it? The outcome wouldn't have changed, no matter how you did it, because in the end of the day, it all boiled down to the dozens of other questions you should've asked her _before_ 'will you marry me'."

"Such as...?"

Lorelai looked at him. He seemed to be legitimately interested in her answer, which surprised her, a little. Seven years earlier, when her opinions would have actually changed something, he'd been so dead-set on that decision that she doubted he'd have listened, even if she'd tried to say something.

"Big wedding or small?" she asked, leaning against the counter. "Should you have been looking at the Westminster Abbey for the ceremony, or would she rather elope, just so she could avoid dealing with my mom, and your mom, and this whole madhouse of a town? Where would you go for the honeymoon? You never got to take that Asia trip you'd planned, and a honeymoon would be one hell of an excuse, but wouldn't you rather go somewhere more romantic, instead? And what about the future? Babies? Dogs? White picket fences?" She paused, trying to figure out how to express her thoughts in the least hurtful way possible. "Don't get me wrong; I'm sure you've both spent huge amounts of time daydreaming about it, and as young as you both were back then, I don't doubt that as individuals, you were more than ready to get married. Just not...-"

"As a couple."

"Exactly."

Logan nodded, stopping himself short from saying that was a mistake he wouldn't be making again. The last thing he wanted was to imply that he had plans to propose to Rory again any time in the foreseeable future, especially when their relationship still felt so fragile and uncertain, but he had to admit that she had a point.

After all, he knew the answer Chloe would have given to all of these questions - but he wouldn't dare claiming that he knew, without a hint of a doubt, what Rory would say.

Before he could come up with a suitable reply, Lorelai's phone chimed, and she reached for it, a frown forming on her forehead as she read the text she'd just received.

"Looks like we're gonna need a rain check on that coffee, kid," she said, smiling at him. "Rory's coming home."

* * *

 **A/N:** Just a quick update before I head off to work (on a Saturday). I might come back later with a decent A/N, but for now, thanks for the reviews and the birthday wishes! I love you all!

The Boyfriend hates the title for this chapter - do you agree with him? Let me know! And also, let me know what you think of Lorelai! Is this redemption enough?

See you next Saturday!


	7. You've Been Served

**Chapter 6 - You've Been Served**

 _ **Logan Huntzberger:**_ _Hey, Ace. Got any plans for the night?_

 _ **Rory Gilmore:**_ _It's Monday, Logan. What kind of person has plans for Monday night?_

 _ **Logan Huntzberger:**_ _I don't know, busy people?_

 _ **Logan Huntzberger:**_ _Anyway. I'll be in NY for the day. Wanna meet me for coffee after work?_

 _ **Rory Gilmore:**_ _Can't relate._

 _ **Rory Gilmore:**_ _And sure. Coffee sounds great._

.x.

Along with the entire Vatican City and most of the Playboy Mansion, the _New York Times_ building ranked pretty high on the list of places that Logan thought he'd never have a reason to visit. For starters, his trips to New York seldom led him west of 5th Avenue, and even if he were to venture outside of the East Side bubble, there was only a limited number of things that would prompt him to go anywhere near the number 242 on West 41st Street.

And yet, there he was, standing in the lobby, watching waves of young, promising journalists rush past him, readying themselves to face the harsh New York winter on their way home after a long day of work.

He'd never go so far as to say that he missed being a reporter - he'd made that mistake before, and it led him from a tech startup in Palo Alto to a _Cosmo_ -style magazine in LA. It took him two issues to realize that his decision had been misguided at best, and after he'd bought the magazine and assumed the management responsibilities, he quickly found out that _business_ was his vocation - not journalism.

Still, he'd grown up in that kind of environment and surrounded by that kind of people, and as a result, the frantic energy of a newsroom still felt a little like home, in a way that his top-floor office never would.

Even if it was tainted by the words ' _The New York Times_ '.

"Huntz?"

The male voice calling his name distracted him from his musings. Out of the handful of people who still used that nickname, there was only one who'd ever be found in the vicinity of the _New York Times_ headquarters: AG Sulzberger, deputy publisher of the _Times_ and Logan's first-ever business connection, from way back when he had no idea what that meant.

They'd known each other since they were children, from boring dinner parties at each other's family houses and tennis matches on opposite sides of the court, and although Logan thought that 'friendship' was too strong a word to describe their relationship, it was hard to deny that they shared a lasting (albeit flimsy) bond - the kind that only the heirs to rivalling empires could. So, it was with a legitimately pleased smile that he turned around to greet his newly-acquired arch-nemesis.

"Sulz," he said, in his most convincing portrayal of delight. "Fancy meeting you here."

.x.

Rory walked out of the elevator to find Logan in the lobby, just like he'd promised he would be - except that he'd never, _ever_ , said anything that could have prepared her for the sight of him talking to her Deputy Ultimate Boss, as if they were old friends.

When she realized that she'd have to interrupt (and possibly join) them, she felt a wave of nervousness rush through her body, just like she'd felt when she met Christiane Amanpour (in her pyjamas), or when she was introduced to (then Senator) Barack Obama. _AG Sulzberger_ was an idol, a powerful name whispered in awed, worshipping tone throughout the building - but it wasn't a real person, much less one that she could ever picture herself making small talk with.

Then again, so was _Logan Huntzberger_.

And if she could have coffee with the CEO of the Huntzberger Publishing Group, she sure as hell could make polite chitchat with the chairman of the New York Times Company.

So, with a deep breath and all the courage she could muster, she fixed her ponytail, straightened her shoulders, and made her way over to them, her heels clacking on the floor with a determination that she didn't actually feel.

"Ah, Ace, there you are!" Logan said, smiling widely when she joined them. "And you only stayed fifteen minutes longer than you should; that's got to be a record."

"Logan," she groaned, feeling her whole face burning. She wasn't sure if he was making fun of her (because she did, in fact, tend to stay at work for more hours than she was supposed to), or simply praising her (because that could possibly interpreted as commitment to her job).

Either way, he was doing it in front of someone she would have really liked to impress and, judging by the look on his face, she'd say that he was nowhere near impressed.

She had the feeling that his initial thoughts weren't in any way improved when Logan wrapped his arm around her shoulders, cheerfully asking him, "Ever met Rory Gilmore, Sulz?"

As they politely greeted each other, Logan rambled on, "Miss Gilmore here is the best editor I've ever had." He beamed proudly at her. "One hell of a reporter, too. Impressive work ethics, _outstanding_ research skills, and a way with words that could make lesser men weep - I know _I_ have." He chuckled. "My dad should have never let her go."

His smile turned smug - once again, a difference so subtle that Rory doubted anyone else would notice it. But even though his facial expressions were nowhere near a dead giveaway, everyone in that conversation knew exactly what Logan had left unspoken.

 _And neither should you_.

An advice; a threat. Looming ominously over their heads, carefully concealed under countless layers of manufactured friendliness and polite animosity.

Business. As usual.

.x.

Their conversation lasted for a few more minutes, before Arthur excused himself under the claim that he had a few pressing issues to handle in his office.

It was only after he'd disappeared in the direction of the elevators that Logan let go of Rory, turning to face her so he could fully take in how _fantastic_ she looked - and not just because she'd always rocked the 'sexy librarian' look.

What had him picking his jaw up from the floor was the powerful, confident look on her face, and the way she seemed to be perfectly comfortable around two of the most influential men in publishing world, holding her head high amongst them as if she had no doubt that she belonged in their midst.

In all honesty, that kind of demeanour was hot as hell, but it also reminded him of what Lorelai had said about them not knowing each other anymore. Granted, Rory had always been strong and independent (and to her credit, she'd never been intimidated by his dad), but she'd always had the tendency to shy away from stepping out of her comfort zone.

He'd tried - Lord knows he'd tried - to push her boundaries, but it felt like his influence on her had been limited to felonies and sabbaticals. And while Lorelai might think that those were major changes, he knew that neither stealing yachts nor dropping out of Yale would have led Rory to becoming the even stronger, more independent woman standing right in front of him.

And neither would being, first and foremost, Rory Huntzberger - _his wife_.

"So," she said, trying to recapture his attention. "What's the plan?"

"I don't know. _You're_ the New Yorker."

"I _so_ am not." She laughed. "But how about we head back to my place, so I can _finally_ get rid of these shoes, and we reassess from there?"

Logan's smile grew wider, and he didn't need to say anything for her to know _exactly_ where his mind went at the mere idea of going to her apartment. Much to her surprise, however, he kept all lewd comments to himself, although his tone was far from innocent as he replied, "Lead the way, Ace."

.x.

Logan didn't know what he'd expected, exactly, but he found it a bit surprising that Rory's apartment was located at the corner of 2nd Avenue and 65th - a location within the bounds of the Upper East Side, albeit not as glamorous as some of the other addresses nearby.

Not that he had any idea what she'd been looking for when she picked that place, of course. Through the duration of their relationship, Rory had never lived in a place she could call her own. She'd gone from a university-assigned dorm room to the apartment she shared with Paris, from Emily's pool house to his off-campus loft - a series of living arrangements where her control over location and decorations had been virtually nonexistent, largely limited by other people's boundaries, budgets, or tastes.

Therefore, there was a part of him (much bigger than he cared to admit) that was curious to see what Rory Gilmore's Very Own Apartment would look like - and just how different it would be from The First Apartment Logan Huntzberger Actually Paid For.

That curiosity was only fuelled when they stepped out of the elevator, and she warned, "This is _nothing_ like the places you're used to."

"You mean, it doesn't look like the cover of a Swedish interior design magazine?"

"Nope. It's _at best_ an IKEA catalogue."

"I happen to _like_ IKEA, you know?" He laughed. "How do you think I furnished the apartment in Palo Alto without Daddy's black Amex?"

Rory tilted her head to the side, frowning, as she tried to picture Logan shopping at IKEA, blue tote bag and tiny little pencil in tow as he picked the pieces of furniture that looked the most polished - and would inevitably turn out to be a complete nightmare to assemble. She enjoyed that mental image, if anything because it was much better, much safer, than focusing on the revelation that the idyllic house with the avocado tree had been abandoned along with all the other dreams he'd had for them.

"Well," she said, looking for her keys in an attempt to think of anything other than their failed relationship. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

She unlocked the door and Logan stepped into the apartment, looking around as if he wanted to take it all in at once. His first thought was that he now understood why she'd made it a point to lower his expectations, because they definitely weren't in the massive penthouse with a glorious view of the Central Park that he'd have imagined if she'd told him she lived on the Upper East Side. The whole apartment - balcony and all - didn't seem to reach the 800 square feet mark, and all the windows seemed to be facing the brick wall of the neighbouring building.

He was sure that the sentence 'you don't have a straight view into any windows' had been said by the realtor at least once as she showed the apartment to potential buyers.

 _As a selling point_.

Rory watched him anxiously, trying to find out what he thought of the plain white walls covered in Pinterest-approved 'wall art', or the set of _Billy_ bookshelves crammed with books in the far corner of the dining-and-living room, where she could barely fit her _Vimle_ couch and what looked like every item in the _Lack_ line - she wasn't kidding when she compared her decoration with an IKEA catalogue, and she could almost point out the moment when that exact thought crossed his mind.

 _That_ smirk was unmistakable.

"Well... It's not the shittiest place where you've ever lived," he said, smiling, and she almost thanked him for somehow managing to find something that sounded almost like a compliment.

She'd been afraid of what he would say, hoping that he would know better than to point out how she deserved (and possibly could afford) better than that - because she knew that.

That apartment had been a rushed purchase, a temporary-turned-permanent solution for an unforeseen problem: being broken-hearted and living in a hotel room, after Nick - the guy she'd moved to New York for - broke up with her and she had to move out of his apartment. Sure, it had served its purpose of putting a roof over her head when she had none, but now that she'd been back on her feet for _months_ , it was hard not to see it as just another thing she'd settled for because it was convenient.

"Would you like a grand tour?" she offered, her tone a little less sarcastic than he'd anticipated.

Logan looked at her, trying to figure out if he was supposed to take her seriously. Then, deciding to call her bluff, he said, "Sure."

She led him further into the apartment, so he could get a better view of the living room, while they both competed to see who could come up with the most outrageously demeaning comment - not that they were short of material in any way, what with the corridor that passed as a kitchen, or the ridiculously tiny closets near the bathroom and in her bedroom.

But even Logan and his acid wit couldn't find anything to say about the balcony, a narrow stretch of tile that wrapped itself around the building, like an outdoor passage between her bedroom and the living room. It was far from an architectural masterpiece, and it sure would be a much more interesting feature if it came with a better view, but Rory had decorated it with a wrought iron end table and an armchair that gave the space the kind of cozy feeling that made him want to spend entire afternoons there, curled up with a book and a cup of coffee.

He rested his forearms on the railing, looking down at the street below them, and before he was even aware of what he was saying, he murmured, "Fuck, we're high."

"We've been higher," she replied, leaning against the railing at his side.

He glanced at her and smirked. "I meant off the ground."

Rory laughed, but the witty reply that he'd expected never came. Instead, she rested her head on his shoulder, and they fell into a warm, loaded silence, while they lost themselves in the memories of that day, ten years ago, when they stood on a ledge, readying themselves for a (very literal) leap of faith.

Shortly after that day, Logan would learn that leaps of the metaphorical kind were much harder to take than the literal ones.

"By the way," Rory said, in an overly casual tone. "I quit my job today."

Or maybe not that hard, after all.

.x.

It wasn't her intention, but Rory found herself telling Logan (with only minimal amounts of cynicism) all about the _fantastic_ day she'd had at work, starting with the amazing piece about politics that she'd have killed to write, but was unable to sign up for it because she wrote for Arts & Leisure, and her editor, Dave, would never let another section steal her away from her precious column.

She'd almost convinced herself that the day couldn't get any more depressing when Dave called her into his office and handed her the book of the week - a work of literature so atrocious that she was just a few paragraphs away from crying in the bathroom when her cell phone chimed and Logan's name popped up on the screen.

In that moment, she experienced a Hollywoodian moment of clarity, the kind that she'd never considered realistic. After spending the weekend googling him and HER Media - the company that he'd built from the ground up, with the help of two other journalists - she'd reached the conclusion that Logan was as good an investment as any, and in the final version of her pro/con list, the 'pro' side had won by a landslide.

Her sense of duty had dragged her to work that morning, but it wasn't enough to keep her motivated throughout the day, and Logan's texts, innocent and friendly as they were, felt like the final nail in the coffin for her drive.

He was right; she did deserve more than tearing apart an endless supply of poorly-written novels, with plots so thin that she could see right through them and descriptions so bad that she needed stick-figure diagrams to make some sense of all the (unrealistically fantastic) sex. She deserved Kafka and Faulkner, Gabriel García Márquez and Toni Morrison - books she could discuss on Friday night dinners and social gatherings without feeling the need to burrow into the ground.

With that realization in mind, she'd marched into her editor's office and said the two words she'd never thought she'd have the reason - or the courage - to say.

 _I quit_.

His disappointment had been insulting, even more so after everything Logan told her publisher about what a great journalist she was. She knew that his judgement was clouded by their personal relationship, but she had to believe that he could be unbiased when she was involved.

The very concept of the job he'd offered her depended on that.

"Does that mean you're taking the job?" he asked, trying (and failing) to contain the edge of excitement in his voice.

She smiled at him, feeling almost giddy at his blatant glee.

"I'm taking the job."

.x.

Logan had insisted that they went out to celebrate, telling her to grab her best 'Friday night dinner' coat and a pair of shoes she could walk in. She could see him looking something up on Google Maps while she got ready, but he refused to tell give her any hints regarding their destination, aside from the obvious fact that they were walking in the general direction of the Central Park.

As they headed towards the glamorous, glitzy heart of the Upper East Side, he told her about how he'd come to New York for an oddly formal (and highly billable) meeting with Colin, whom he'd asked to go over her contract, because he wanted the opinion of a lawyer that wouldn't benefit from it in any way, other than seeing his friend happy.

"This has been a Twilight Zone kind of day for the both of us, huh?" she said, as they stopped in the corner of Park and 65th to wait for the traffic light to turn green.

"Tell me about it." He smiled at her. "On the bright side, Colin said it all looks legal enough, which is great, I guess? It's a pretty standard employment contract, except that it has all these perks and very few caveats."

"In other words, not a standard employment contract at all."

"True." He laughed. Then, deciding that now wasn't the time to explain that it _was_ , in fact, a pretty standard contract for a top job, he explained, "But hey, my dad drafted it, and if Daddy says...-" He shrugged, as they turned right on Madison. "The biggest issue here is that technically, there _isn't_ a COO position available, because my dad was his own COO, and I doubt I'd be too popular around the old men in charge if I just showed up at the next board meeting proposing to create a C-suite position just because I want to hire my ex-girlfriend, who doesn't even work for the company."

"So, there's no job?" she asked, giving him a sad look that made him feel a very real kind of pain.

"There _is_ a job, Ace; I wouldn't lie to you about that. But there's also a reason why I needed an answer before we close the deal on the merger tomorrow. The details are boring, but let's just say that all my business partners are entitled to positions at HPG equivalent to the ones they currently hold at HER Media, so if you were to, say, sign the partnership contract and pay the buy-in by five - LA time...-"

"I'd be promoted about a thousand times by the time you sign the merger."

"Exactly."

"And what about your _current_ COO?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. We've talked about it, before I offered you the job, and there's no way Taylor's moving out of LA - not with a husband and kids and a whole life there."

"Are you implying that I don't have a life?"

He looked at her, trying to decide if he wanted to sugar-coat his reply. Then, deciding that the answer to that dilemma was 'not really', he said, "Not one you're not willing to leave behind, no."

She sighed, but her objections were drowned out by the shiny shoes on display at the Christian Louboutin store - one of those bouts of materialism that she blamed on her mom.

"Come on, Ace," Logan said, laughing and taking her hand so he could drag her away from the store and around the corner of Madison and 76th, and Rory froze when she realized where he was taking her.

"You brought me to _the Carlyle_?" she asked, in shock. The Carlyle was one of the many impossibly fancy hotels in New York, with guests that ranged from world-renowned artists to a long line of American Presidents - in other words, the kind of place that she'd expect a Huntzberger to visit during trips to New York.

Just not _that_ Huntzberger.

"To the _bar_ at the Carlyle." He smiled at her. He knew that maybe it wasn't the kind of bar that she'd have expected from him - it was far too pretentious for his liking, with the gold-foiled ceiling and the jazz bands and the cocktails made with Stoli and champagne. But the Bemelmans Bar was the place where his dad would take all the business associates he cared about, and the sentimental side of him couldn't think of a better place to celebrate Mitchum's last hire.

The fact that he happened to have a room upstairs was just a huge coincidence - a very, very convenient one.

Rory's thoughts seemed to follow a path quite similar to his own, because she turned to face him, with her arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face, as she asked, "Is this a subterfuge?"

"Nope," he assured her. "Not a subterfuge."

"Are you sure?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "And that contract I have less than two hours to sign is...-?"

"In my room upstairs."

"But this is not a subterfuge," she insisted, and he smiled at her. He knew there was no rational explanation for why her scepticism felt so endearing and amusing, and he wondered if she knew how difficult that whole situation was for him.

"Rory... I'd love to take you upstairs with me, you know I would, but I don't think it would be wise of us to sleep together right now." He sighed, trying to drown out the protests of his high school self, who couldn't believe he was passing up on the chance to get laid. "So, no, this is _not_ a subterfuge. This is just you, me, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and a _very sexy_ night full of 'sign this' and 'initial that' and 'don't forget to date these'."

He stepped closer to her, wrapping his hands around her waist. "Unless you'd rather go upstairs with me and forget the job thing ever happened."

Rory bit her lower lip, struggling to form a coherent thought over the fluttering of the butterflies in her stomach. It was ridiculous, she thought, that even the smallest touches rendered her unable to think rationally - and it was even more ridiculous that she yearned for physical contact from him.

"So, it's one or the other."

"Tonight, it is."

She sighed. Damn Logan and his ultimatums - but as frustrating as those were, she found some kind of nostalgic comfort in them. If some things were supposed to never change, at least he'd stuck with his penchant for seeing life as an 'all or nothing' kind of deal, while dialing down on the impulsivity and recklessness.

"Guess we'd better get started on those signatures, huh?"

He smiled at her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and leading her into the hotel, ignoring the elevators as they went straight to the bar.

Some leaps - even ones of the metaphorical kind - were just that easy.

* * *

 **A/N:** For the record, AG Sulzberger is a real person. And Rory's apartment? Also a real apartment, with a full address and pictures straight from Google Maps and a realtor's website.

This chapter was a Major Struggle to write, but it's one of my favourites - and one of the last in New York. Let me know what you think of it!

And thank you for sticking with me despite the massive amounts of Lorelai! If it makes any of you feel any better, I promise she won't bring any more bumps to their road.

See you all next week!


	8. Match Points and Louboutins

**Chapter 7 - Match Points and Louboutins**

 _Ace_

 _noun \_ _ˈ_ _ā_ _s\_

 _a point scored especially on a service (as in tennis or handball) that an opponent fails to touch_

.x.

A weird kind of tension lingered in the air when Rory walked into the newsroom on Tuesday morning - or maybe she was just imagining things, prompted by a wave of guilt-induced paranoia.

Logan had more than delivered on his promise of 'a very sexy night of contract signing', and _hours_ passed before he sent her home with a huge pile of papers, including a copy of all the documents he'd made her sign (but not before reading and discussing everything in excruciating detail), her resignation letter (writing it together seemed like such a great idea at the time), and an envelope containing what Logan had dubbed her Get Out of Jail Free card (the word 'affidavit' had been thrown around, but she doubted it meant what he thought it meant).

She'd filed the contracts in her 'important documents' binder, and everything she'd need to take to work the next morning found a temporary home in a folder neatly packed in her messenger bag - which had subsequently grown a tonne heavier overnight, or so it had seemed when she left the apartment.

So, maybe she was feeling guilty. Maybe the nervous silence that filled the room when she arrived wasn't all that nervous.

Or all that silent.

Which didn't seem to be the case at all, because when her phone chimed just as she was dropping her bag on the floor by her chair, she could have sworn that it had never sounded so loud.

Still, despite all the guilt and anxiety, she found herself smiling at the message that appeared on her screen.

 _You still in, Ace?_

She didn't even have the time to think of a reply before the elevator doors opened and Dave walked into the newsroom. Normally, the mere presence of their editor would be enough to send all the journalists on the floor into a frenzy of faked productivity, with lots of aimless typing and phone calls that suddenly sounded business-related, instead of purely personal. But today, their daze seemed impervious even to the sight of him storming through the room towards the Aquarium - the large square of glass in the middle of the room, which he called his office.

He'd just reached the door when he turned around, his eyes scanning his underlings before settling on Rory.

"Gilmore!" he called, his voice booming with even more authority than usual. "Get your ass in here! Now!"

Rory could feel all eyes on her as she got up, fixing her skirt and searching her bag for the folder with all the documents she felt like she'd need sooner, rather than later. As she walked over to the Aquarium, it seemed that the whole office erupted in hushed whispers and Skype messages.

Stop the presses - the Teacher's Pet had been called into the Principal's office.

She closed the door behind herself, knowing full well that at least one of her coworkers would be desperately trying to read their lips to find out what they were talking about. Dave looked at Rory, his beady eyes showing no sign of warmth towards her.

"I've just spent the past hour talking to AG Sulzberger," he said, as she sat down on one of the chairs facing his desk. "I'd never even talked to the man before, so you can imagine my surprise when I found out that he called me over to discuss your future at the _Times_."

He looked at her like he expected her to say something - any kind of acknowledgement would have been appropriate, really - but Rory felt like she'd lost the ability to form a coherent thought. There was a slim possibility that she'd been fired by the Boss himself (ironically enough, _after_ she'd quit the job), but she knew that it was far more likely that he wanted to make sure Logan knew he'd heard his message, loud and clear.

"Now," he continued, once he realized she wasn't going to say anything, "I don't know what you did, but I'm supposed to ship you off to Politics or something, so you can get a _real_ byline in by the end of the week." He scoffed, insulted at the implication that his own publisher didn't see his section as real journalism. "But I can't do it, now, can I? So, that puts me in a very difficult position, because I've had to tell _the boss's son_ that the journalist he's taken such a sudden interest on quit her fucking job less than 24 hours ago. Needless to say, he wasn't happy to hear that."

"I understand," she replied, trying her best to keep her voice level. She knew that the proper response would be to act thrilled by the perspective of having piqued the interest of the Boss to Rule Them All, but she found it hard to pretend that she was delighted, when in reality she felt more annoyed than flattered.

She'd spent two years working her ass off in the hopes that one day she'd be noticed - that one day someone would realise that she could do much more, and that she'd be offered a 'real byline' because someone thought she deserved it. And when that opportunity finally came knocking on her door, it was as a desperate attempt to get her to stay, just so someone in charge could prove to someone else that they had the upper hand.

It was all she could do not to tell Dave to shove that offer up his ass.

"Look, Rory. I don't know why you're leaving or what you've been promised, but I'd suggest that you keep in mind that this is not the kind of man that you just say no to."

"Oh, I know." She smiled sweetly at him. "But neither is this one."

She placed the envelope on the desk, praying that Logan had the forethought to sign whatever document it was that he'd given her - or, at the very least, that he'd made sure it was unquestionably connected to him.

The logo for HER Media on the top left corner of the paper almost elicited a relieved sigh from her, but it was nothing compared to the signature at the end of the block of text.

Rory would have recognised his handwriting anywhere, but Dave didn't need to be familiar with the loops and curves of Logan's penmanship, because the words typed under it spoke for themselves.

 _Logan Huntzberger, CEO._

"As you can see," she said, with a saccharine tone that did nothing to hide her cynicism, "my decision is final."

.x.

With the realization that he, a lowly editor, couldn't compete with an offer from Logan Huntzberger himself, Dave dismissed Rory, telling her to clear out her desk while he prepared the paperwork needed to terminate her contract - an assignment she'd be more than happy to do, for a change.

She was far from surprised to reach her cubicle to find Alice (her work BFF and the reigning Gossip Girl of the A&L floor) sitting on her chair. "What did he want?" she asked, unceremoniously, jumping to her feet and handing Rory a mug full of coffee. "Are you in trouble?"

"Not in trouble," Rory replied, sitting on her chair and taking a sip from the coffee while she tried to decide how much to tell her friend, when she knew that everyone is the cubicles around them would be listening in. Not that she could give too many details anyway, because the NDA Logan had made her sign barely allowed her to say that she'd be moving to Hartford in the very near future. "I _am_ leaving, though."

"Leaving as in...-" she made a slashing motion across her throat, and Rory laughed at the dramatic expression on her face.

"I quit, actually." She hesitated, trying to tell herself that there was no reason to feel guilty for not having kept her friend up to date with the happenings of her life.

She and Alice were close, yes, but in a strictly office-related manner - having coffee together in the break room, talking trash about their boss, going out for the occasional happy hour. They weren't, however, close in the real world, so there was no way Rory would have called her over the weekend just to announce that her long-lost ex-boyfriend had offered her a job.

Still, it was hard not to remember what Logan had said, about Rory not having a life she wouldn't leave behind in a heartbeat - and as harsh as it might be to think that Alice wasn't close to her enough to warrant a call, it still wasn't as awful as the fact that she was still the closest friend she had in New York. At least, after the breakup with Nick.

"I got a new job," she explained, with a proud smile. It was the first time she'd been able to say that whole sentence out loud, and it felt just as good as she'd imagined. "Better pay, better hours, better books. How could I ever say no?"

.x.

As Rory soon found out, clearing her desk was a deceptively easy, almost mindless task. Stick-figure diagrams illustrating badly-described sexual acts? Trash. Her massive collection of pens? Keep. Untouched legal pads, with the wrong line width? Return to office supply closet. Lily, the succulent? Ask the Office Mom to be its new mommy. Custom-made ' _Life's short, talk fast_ ' mug, which she'd gotten for last year's Secret Santa? Protect from harm at any cost.

But once the past two years of her life were nearly stacked in a cardboard box (or in the bottom of a trashcan), it was time for the truly difficult part of her day.

When she walked into the Aquarium again, Dave was waiting for her with yet another huge pile of documents that she needed to sign (frankly, she wished someone would have warned her of how much of her adult life would be spent signing things), and after she was done with that, the time came to hand in her ID badge and her most prized, yet least used, possession: her press ID.

In the whole time she'd worked for the _Times_ , she'd never had a reason to announce to the world that she was a reporter, but more than an symbol for other people, her press ID was a shiny, laminated reminder to herself - a physical memento of her journey thus far, reminding her of how far she'd come and all that was yet to accomplish.

But the moment she signed the first of the many contracts Logan gave her last night, she'd sold her hopes and dreams for a top-floor office with her name on the door, and the price to pay for it also included giving up on what felt like a huge chunk of her identity.

That, and the 100 thousand dollars she'd spent on the buy-in for the partnership at HER Media.

Once it was all said and done, and before she picked up her things and left, she reached for her phone, finally getting around to answering Logan's text.

 _I'm all in_.

Three words.

Endless possibilities.

And a wide open future, staring straight at her.

.x.

Rory spent the rest of the morning in her apartment, preparing for the 'bare minimum' version of moving across states, as suggested by the precious pointers that Logan had given her, in the form of a checklist that she'd stuck to her now-empty fridge.

 _Pack all your winter clothes. You won't be needing sundresses anytime soon. Take your favourite books. No one needs that many shoes. Yes, that book looks lonely; add it to the pile. Don't leave that armchair outside. Make sure all windows are closed. You can survive another week without War and Peace. Take out the trash._

The final result barely changed the overall look of the apartment - in fact, as she stood at the door with the two biggest suitcases she owned at her side, it was hard not to feel like she'd been just tidying up the place before going out for a long weekend in Stars Hollow or a summer in Europe. It felt nothing like the emotionally draining event of leaving Nick's home after he broke up with her, nor did it resemble in any way the slightly more enjoyable process of packing up a whole apartment because her college days were over.

It was almost like when she moved out of her mom's house to go to Yale, or from her dad's for Harvard - a pretend-leaving that left her with a door wide open, in case she ever wanted to (or needed to) come back.

The only difference was, this time she'd have nothing to come back to, except for a few pieces of IKEA furniture.

With a sigh and a silent promise that she'd come back for the rest of her books when she had a permanent residence in Hartford, she locked the door and headed for the elevator, the last item on Logan's to-do list hanging menacingly over her head.

 _New job, new clothes_.

If only Pinterest could help her figure out what a COO was supposed to wear.

.x.

It was only 7 when Rory parked her car behind Lorelai's Jeep, but after a day of packing and shopping, she was so exhausted that she was glad she'd decided to spend the night at her mom's, instead of her grandma's. Sure, she'd have to wake up an hour earlier just so she could get to work on time, but even that seemed to be worth it, when the other option was to drive to Hartford and face the Spanish Inquisition.

She picked up the suitcase with all the stuff that she was going to leave in Stars Hollow for the time being, plus the Bloomingdales bags filled with her First Day Favourites, hoping that a few hours with her mom would help her narrow down that list to a single outfit, instead of ten.

Lorelai had promised she'd be waiting for her ('eagerly, on the porch'), but when Rory unlocked the door, the living room was empty.

"Mom?" she called, dropping her bags on the floor, and the next thing she knew, she was being greeted by all the tackling power of a six-year-old, as Vicky latched herself onto her legs.

"Rory!" she squealed in delight, and Rory crouched down to look into her sister's big, blue eyes.

Lorelai had found out that she was pregnant a couple of months after Rory left for the campaign trail, and once she got past the 'mocking Mom for getting pregnant by accident, _again_ ' part, Rory was thrilled by the perspective of having a new sibling - if anything, because it meant that Lorelai would have a new Gilmore girl to keep her company while her first-born was out conquering the world, one small town at a time.

Over the years, Rory had done her best to be present in her sister's life, in spite of the geographical distance. She'd attended every single birthday party (including the Five Days of Birthdays, from last year), and she'd bought age-appropriate Christmas gifts (someone had to shower that girl with Fisher-Price toys, after all). She'd even taken Vicky on road trips to New Haven and Cambridge and whole weekends in New York, but it wasn't even close to enough - at least not in her opinion.

Vicky, however, seemed to disagree: she _adored_ her big sister, to the point of attending Friday night dinners just because she'd be there.

"Hey, Princess!" she cooed, pulling her into a tight hug. "How have you been?"

"I learned a new word!" she announced, with a proud smile. Much to Lorelai's chagrin, Rory had bought her sister a copy of the Oxford Children's Dictionary, and ever since she'd started learning how to read, Vicky had been _obsessed_ with it, looking up random words as if she wanted to learn them all.

"Really?" Rory asked, with the genuine, eager interest that only she could feel. "What word was it?"

Vicky looked at her, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she tried to remember the word she'd heard her mom say just a few hours earlier.

Before she could remember, Lorelai joined them, interrupting their sisterly bonding moment with a playful, "So, the prodigal daughter returns."

"Indeed, she does." Rory smiled, getting back up. "At least for the night."

"Well, we take what we can get." Lorelai shrugged, as the three of them made their way to the kitchen. "Right, Vicky?"

Vicky nodded excitedly, although she had no clue what her mom was talking about. Rory sat at the table, opening the pink Weston's box that was on it, while Lorelai set up the coffee maker.

"Cherry pie from Weston's?" Rory teased. "How decadent."

"Hm, about that...-" Lorelai looked at her daughters. "Vicky, sweetie, can you go get Rory's gifts for Mommy?"

Vicky skipped out of the room, leaving the grown-ups alone, and Rory didn't need any more hints to know that it was Serious Conversation time.

"Logan stopped by," Lorelai said, sitting on one of the empty chairs. "We talked, we had pie, I reminded him that I'll hunt him down with a crossbow if he hurts you again, and now we're cool." She smiled, although her rundown of Logan's visit was so superficial that it almost felt like a lie.

She hated lying to her daughter, but Logan was entitled to at least some resemblance of privacy, and that meant giving him the right to decide if and when he'd tell Rory what he and her mom had talked about.

"He also left you a gift," she added. "And it looks _really_ fancy. Like, 'you're totally sharing it with me'-fancy."

Rory laughed, and right on cue, Vicky walked into the kitchen again, carrying a big box wrapped in marble paper and a much smaller parcel, covered in Disney Princess gift wrap.

"This one's from us." Lorelai said, handing her the smaller package. "Vicky picked the paper herself."

"Oh, that's _very_ tasteful choice." Rory smiled at her sister, carefully tearing at the tape, so as not to ruin the paper - she didn't want to risk offending her sister by destroying it.

The nondescript black box hidden underneath the faces of Cinderella and Belle wasn't much bigger than the ones that usually held those really fancy pens that her grandparents liked to give her on special occasions, but knowing her mom, she knew better than to expect such a practical gift, and the content of the box didn't disappoint: under the layers and layers of tissue paper, she found a rose gold desk nameplate, engraved with the words, _I'm not bossy, I'm the boss._

She couldn't help laughing at it, thinking that it would be one hell of a statement to use it as part of the decoration of her new office (she couldn't _believe_ she'd have an office of her own, for that matter). Rory thanked them profusely, hugging them both before placing the nameplate back into its box (minus the tissue paper) and turning her attention to Logan's gift.

With no reason to curb her curiosity this time, she teared at the paper, and both her jaw and Lorelai's dropped when they saw the words _Christian Louboutin_ printed on the beige cardboard.

Rory's hands were shaking as she opened the box, even Vicky was holding her breath - undoubtedly sensing that this was a Very Important Pair of Shoes - as Rory pulled apart the tissue paper to reveal a stunning pair of black patent leather _So Kate_ stilettos.

Beneath them, in a plain white cardboard that created an almost comical contrast with the shoes, Logan's neat handwriting read, _Welcome to HPG, Ace_.

.x.

It was almost 9 when Logan finally parked his car in the garage at his parents' house. His first official afternoon as the CEO of the Huntzberger Publishing Group had been full, just like he'd expected, after a week of abeyance - but this time, he had no complaints about the ungodly hours he'd spent at work.

He'd always more or less subscribed to the idea of 'work hard, play harder', but when the only thing waiting for him when he left the office was an empty, hostile palace, he was more than happy to forego the 'play' part and drown himself in sixteen-hour workdays.

He wondered if his dad had also felt like that for his whole life.

Or maybe Mitchum was just an asshole.

Either explanation sounded true enough.

He headed straight to his old bedroom, which still looked exactly like it did when he left for Yale, thirteen years ago. Maybe, some sense of nostalgia could be garnered from sleeping in a time capsule straight from the simpler, easier times of 2001, and maybe he'd have appreciated that, in a different setting. But now, when even his cufflinks came from Daddy's closet, being in his old room just added to the feeling that he was living a borrowed life, and he wanted, more than anything, to go back to having a life of his own.

He stripped down to his underwear, throwing all of his clothes on the chair by the desk, and picked up his pyjamas - an old pair of Yale sweatpants that he was sure he'd never bought for himself. He'd just sat on the bed, ready to cozy up with his laptop for the rest of the night, when his phone started ringing, and he didn't even need to check the caller ID to know who it was.

He had, after all, been waiting all night for her call.

He pressed the 'accept call' button, and before he could even say anything, Rory's voice drowned out his attempted greeting as she said, "Tell me you didn't get me a 700-dollar pair of shoes."

"Good, evening, Ace," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "How was your day?"

"Logan." She said his name in such an impatient tone that he could almost picture the unamused look on her face, her blue eyes staring at him in a mix of sternness and annoyance - an expression that he found more endearing (and far sexier) than she probably intended.

" _Seven hundred dollars_ , Logan," she repeated, and he felt like reminding her that their bottle of champagne from last night had cost as much as those shoes, and yet, she hadn't said a single word in protest.

"A small price to pay to thank you for the whole 'selling me your soul' thing, don't you think?"

"What, were all the 'thank you' cards in Connecticut sold out?"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that Hallmark now sold 'thank you for quitting your job at that place where you've always wanted to work, just so we could work together in that company we both despise' cards. I'll make sure to look for them next time I'm at Target, in case I ever need one again."

Rory met his reply with a stunned silence. His annoyance was tangible beneath the layers of polite words said with a huge amount of cynicism, and it was only then, as she contemplated the possibility of having offended him, that she realized that she'd never even thanked him for his gift.

It was no wonder that he'd gone from playful to pissed in the short space of a sentence.

"They're beautiful, Logan," she said, in a conciliatory tone that made him feel better almost instantly. "Crazy expensive, but beautiful."

"They're nothing you don't deserve." He smiled, closing the lid on his laptop and lying back against the pillows. "You've made a huge sacrifice by leaving the _Times_ and moving out of New York in less than 24 hours, and I wanted something to show you how much I appreciate that."

"Seven hundred dollars' worth of appreciation?" she teased, and something in the lightness of her tone made him picture her lying on the bed, curled up under the comforter, the phone lodged between her ear and the pillow.

"Something like that." He looked at the ceiling, his eyes following the patterns of light that filtered through the trees in the backyard, as he reminisced about how reasonable and logical everything had seemed last night, when he and Rory walked past the Christian Louboutin store on Madison.

He hadn't even noticed the store at first, but when Rory literally froze in place to stare at it, it was hard not to give at least _some_ of his attention to the shiny shoes on the other side of the glass - and when the red leather soles caught his eye, his mind went straight to the many, _many_ times he'd heard Chloe rant about them.

'Nothing says power like a pair of Louboutins clacking on marble,' she used to say. And as many reasons to be resentful towards her as he had, he knew better than to ignore the fashion advice from the person who'd introduced him to True Religion.

So, when morning rolled around, he'd marched into the store, emerging a few minutes later with a pair of _So Kate_ pumps and the promise that his _girlfriend_ would love them to pieces.

Clearly, the sales girl missed the mark on more than just his relationship status.

"Well, thank you," she said, the honesty in her voice sounding much more believable now. "I don't think anyone has ever appreciated me this much before."

"All these years later, Ace, and you still have no idea how much a Birkin bag costs?" He clicked his tongue, in mock disapproval. "Frankly, I'm offended."

"And to think that back in the day you used to love me _because_ I'm have put my laptop in it if you'd let me."

"Oh, to be that young and naïve again." He chuckled, his mind promptly providing him of memories of that night. The sales woman telling him that his girlfriend was lucky to have a boyfriend who loved her enough to buy her a Birkin bag. Rory's reaction, ranging from the predicted excitement over a new, shiny bag, to the adorable obliviousness regarding what the word 'Hermès' was supposed to mean, to the first time she told him she loved him.

She was right, though: her lack of materialism had been one of the things that made him fall for her. He'd spent his whole life being a fancy last name, a hefty bank account, a well-deserved reputation, and his infamous line of suitors was comprised of girls who were only interested in those aspects.

But not Rory. No, Rory had hated him at first sight, and kept on despising him even after she found out he was a Huntzberger. And when her hatred finally became tolerance, she turned out to be the exact type of girl that Logan had never thought he'd find: the one who was more interested in his heart than in his last name.

Such a despicably _cheesy_ thing to think, if he said so himself.

Cheesy. But as his young and naïve self would have it, absolutely true.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, laughing. "I think I can like this 'old and bitter' thing."

"Oh, really?"

"Really. I mean, if Louboutins mean 'thank you', I can only imagine what says 'I love you'."

Rory blurted out those last words without realizing that they could mean something completely different from what she'd intended. She'd been referring to the whole Birkin bag thing and to how Logan had used it to manifest his feelings when he still wasn't ready to talk about them, but as soon as she said those words, she realised that there was a second, much more dangerous and uncomfortable interpretation: she could be musing about _future_ gestures.

Ones directed at her.

It took Logan only a second or so to reply, but it was enough time to have her freaking out over the possibility that he would misinterpret her, and it was almost with relief that she noticed his bitter tone as he said, "Harry Winston engagement rings."

Much like Rory, Logan hadn't been fully aware of what he was saying until _after_ the words were lingering in the air. He was sure that she knew he wasn't referring to her and the family heirloom that she'd rejected, but he found it hard to see it as a good thing, when he knew she'd jump to the obvious conclusion.

Which was that the 13-carat sapphire ring from the most pretentious jeweller he could find (and which looked remarkably similar to Kate Middleton's, although _that_ had just been a happy coincidence) had belonged to Chloe – the girl he insisted he'd never loved, although he'd just implied that he did.

"Crap," Rory said, and that word alone was enough to dissipate most of the tension - and her playful tone took care of the rest. "I might have to stick with young and naïve, then, because I totally prefer Tiffany's."

Logan laughed, because it was all he could do when faced with the absurdity of discussing engagement rings with his ex-girlfriend - or the fact that he'd just realized that they'd _never_ had that conversation, even when he was thinking about proposing to her.

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied. "In case some lucky bastard ever asks."

Rory fell silent again, this time managing to stop herself short from asking him why he'd automatically assumed that he wouldn't be the one to propose to her - which was great, given that the answer would be just as painful as it was obvious.

Because he'd been there and done that, and she'd said no.

And because they were not together. Not anymore, not yet.

The adverb didn't really matter.

"Now," he said, as desperate to change the subject as she undoubtedly was. "Speaking of overpriced shit, how was your shopping spree today?"

"Long. Hard."

"And a hundred other adjectives that could be used to describe a penis?"

She giggled - honestly, he couldn't think of a better verb to describe her nervous laughter. "I don't know; would you use the word 'painful' to describe a penis?"

"If you're talking about a cat..."

"Oh, dear God," she groaned, her voice slightly muffled, and he _knew_ that she'd buried her face in the pillow, as if that would save her from the mental image.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost see the mortified look on her face.

"So, painful," he said, trying to save the conversation from a lull. He didn't want to hang up just yet, and he knew that the only way to keep the call going was to keep her talking - even if it was about something as meaningless as Hugo Boss suits. "Where did you go? Nordstrom? Saks?"

"Bloomingdales. _Then_ Saks."

"Ouch. Your poor credit card."

"Tell me about it."

He laughed. Truth be told, they were in similar situations, because while he did have a closet full of suits in LA, he'd flown to Hartford in a hurry, and that meant barely packing the one suit he knew for sure he'd need to wear - the one for his dad's funeral.

The amount of shopping he'd been doing lately would put a Hollywood-bred, new money socialite to shame.

" _But_ , have you found something to wear tomorrow?"

"I hope so. It's got Mom's seal of approval and all. Now, I'm just awaiting the verdict on the shoes. Do I dare pairing an Armani suit with Forever 21 shoes, or would I rather endure the pain of brand-new Louboutins?"

"You didn't buy shoes?" he asked, slightly shocked. Rory was so good at overthinking that he found it hard to believe that she hadn't spent the night awake, listing every single thing she'd need to do to prepare for the move.

Then again, he'd written that list for her, in an effort to make the transition a little easier. The only problem was, while Rory loved listing everything in excruciating detail, he usually erred more on the side of straightforwardness.

And if he remembered correctly, he'd specifically used the word 'clothes' to mean that she'd need to go shopping.

"Nor did I pack heels," she replied, with a defeated tone. "Because 'no one needs that many shoes'. I only have the ones I _forgot_ here after Grandma's Christmas party, last year."

"Boy, do we have to work on that 'communication' thing." He laughed. "Arrive with Louboutins. Leave with Forever 21. No one cares what you're wearing when you leave, anyway."

"That's just genius," she marvelled. "How do you do that?"

"Three decades' worth of practice." He shrugged. "Now, enough with the boring stuff. How was the rest of your day? How many shades of purple did Dave turn when you handed in the resignation letter?"

She laughed, and before they noticed it, she was telling him all about her day, starting from Dave's belated offer of a position that required real journalistic abilities. He shared her annoyance at that, although he did admit that it was the exact outcome he'd expected, and it was impossible for him to contain his surprise when she told him about the casual name-dropping and the triumphant exit that followed.

Then, as she got all emotional over the loss of her press ID and leaving her 800 square feet of life behind, he did his best to give her all the support she needed. But there were no gently whispered words that could replace wrapping his arms around her shoulders and holding her against his chest, until she stopped crying about how scared she was of what the future held for her.

"What if I fail at that, too, Logan?" she asked, between sobs. It was a question similar to the ones she'd asked him dozens of times, back when she was still looking for excuses to reject his offer, but this time, he could tell that it was loaded with much more self-doubt than before.

It wasn't just about feeling like she lacked the experience required for that position, but about feeling that her career-related frustrations were a direct reflection of her worth as a professional. As if she'd been stuck with a stupid column for two years because, in the plot twist of the century, Mitchum had been right all along, and she just wasn't cut out to be a journalist.

Once again, he found himself contemplating how different life had become for them. Long gone were the days of sleepless nights during finals weeks and grievance over Henry's lost helm; now, they mourned family members and worried about leading a centennial company into bankruptcy.

"Ace," he said, wishing more than anything that he could look in her eyes right now. "You jump, I jump."

The one thing that hadn't changed, in all these years: they were still in this together.

Standing on top of a seven-story scaffolding. Lost in a hay bale maze.

Together.

* * *

 **A/N:** With a one-day delay, I present you the new chapter! I'm sorry I didn't post yesterday; I got super super sick this week (like, spending two afternoons in the ER in three days), and that threw me off my schedule.

Anyway, so many things happened in this chapter, I don't even know where to begin! So I hope you liked it, and if you did, let me know! If you didn't, let me know, too! I love your feedback!

And just a heads up: I'm predicting a lot of life getting in the way of the next chapter, so we might have to skip a Saturday. But I hope to get back to the normal schedule soon!


	9. Lorelai's First Day at HPG

**Chapter 8 - Lorelai's First Day at HPG**

 _"You don't know me, but you don't like me."_

 _"I know you," she objected, rolling her eyes._

 _I was half-expecting her to say that she knew my kind, that I was just a rich, entitled kid who couldn't be bothered to take things seriously, or some of the other things that girls like her said about boys like me. Instead, she informed me that we had, in fact, met before - on the previous day, no less._

 _I could hardly blame her for being pissed that I didn't remember any of it._

 _And frankly, I couldn't believe it, either._

Logan Huntzberger – _The best years (of our lives)_

.x.

Looking from the outside, the HPG Headquarters weren't nearly as impressive as the _New York Times_ building. They weren't a staple of modern architecture, a steel and glass masterpiece standing tall and proud against one of the most iconic skylines in the world.

From the outside, they were just a building.

But as she stepped in, it was clear that, in spite of the lack of curb appeal, there was no shortage of opulence and attention to detail on the inside. The lobby, with its pristine marble flooring and manicured plants, could have belonged to a five-star hotel, and Rory was sure that the massive crystal chandelier hanging over the atrium had cost more than her car.

It was all so beautiful, so sophisticated, but she couldn't help but think that the golden-rimmed double doors had never seen a reporter run past them, in a mad dash to get to the newest, most front-page-worthy crisis.

And that made her wonder, what the ever-loving _fuck_ was she doing there?

"Guess we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto," she said to herself, fixing the strap of her bag for the millionth time before she made her way to the front desk.

The receptionist - a brunette who looked like a model and whose hair and make-up were as impeccable as her surroundings - greeted her with a peppy smile and an even more cheerful, "Good morning! How can I help you?"

Rory smiled back at her, although she found it hard to feel _that_ perky at eight in the morning, especially when she was several cups of coffee behind in her regular schedule.

"Logan Huntzberger is expecting me," she replied, and it was hard to miss the curious look that she received in response, while the receptionist picked up the phone and dialled Logan's office number.

Her curiosity grew into full-blown confusion in the ten-second call that followed, but somehow she managed to keep her tone cool and professional as she informed Rory that, "Mr. Huntzberger will meet you here soon."

Rory thanked her and sat on one of the leather armchairs in the waiting area, sifting through the pile of newspapers on the end table near it - a sample of her new portfolio, and of the many different editorial lines she'd be handling in the near future.

It was at that moment, when she caught herself comparing the technical aspects of two of their newspapers, that Rory finally understood why Logan had spent the past week telling her that he needed her help. Mitchum had pushed him into an English minor and a position at the _Yale Daily News_ , but he couldn't force his son to learn anything from it - much less, the tiny, overly specific details that could only be learned through years of practice or in-depth study.

Logan lacked both.

But Rory didn't.

"Thinking of all the ways you could improve that lead, Ace?" Logan asked, approaching her. He looked surprisingly put-together in his navy-blue suit and dark red tie, his hair meticulously ruffled to match his warm, magnetic smile and his somewhat carefree attitude.

It almost felt like she was staring at a new, improved version of the Logan she knew - and she couldn't say that she didn't like it.

"Getting greeted at the door by the boss himself?" she teased, ignoring his playful remark. "Am I in trouble, already?"

"Can't let my new COO use a visitor badge on her first day, now, can I?" he replied, handing her an ID badge with her name and picture on it. "Are you ready?"

She nodded and got up from her chair, and Logan led her towards the elevators. Rory couldn't help noticing that this time (possibly for the first time ever), his arm didn't find its way around her shoulders, and neither did he place his hand on her lower back or lace his fingers through hers. And while he did give her an obvious once-over (much like she'd done to him), not a single word had been said about her appearance.

If that's what 'I respect you professionally' looked like, she could definitely get used to it.

.x.

There were many things Logan Huntzberger was good at. He was an above-average tennis player, his negotiation skills were off the charts, and he prided himself on his ability to make people do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. But of all the things he was good at - of all the things he _excelled_ at - the one that brought him the most enjoyment was how he always knew how to make Rory happy, even when he wasn't trying.

Their first stop after the lobby was a perfect example of that. He could have taken her straight to the 30th floor, to the shining, shimmering, splendid world that they'd be sharing from that moment on. He knew that she'd like it, too - if anything, because she seemed to be as excited about her new job as he was.

But when the elevator doors opened and he looked at the floor numbers on the dashboard, he chose to press the button marked with the number 2, instead.

They would get to his office, eventually. But first, coffee.

Rory could feel her heart racing when the elevator doors opened and the smell of the caffeinated elixir of life surrounded her, and she wasn't prepared for the dimly-lit room, with dark wood flooring, concrete walls and copper fixtures. Tiny wooden tables, barely big enough to fit a cup of coffee and a laptop, shared the space with larger ones, which wouldn't look too out of place in an informal meeting room.

She could see herself spending whole afternoons working there - and she had the feeling that this was the exact purpose of that place.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Logan looked at her, an amused smile on his face, and asked, "Very Silicon Valley, isn't it?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'millennial'," she replied, smiling back at him. "Your influence, I assume?"

"I guess." He shrugged, thinking of his own office in LA and how much his experience in Palo Alto had influenced it. From the bright colours everywhere to the rec room with state-of-the-art video game consoles, he'd built for himself a Google-approved kind of workplace - complete with a matching set of Google-approved levels of demands.

The results had been exactly what he'd predicted: happier employees, productivity boosts that more than made up for any lost time, and revenue data to back him up even when his father confronted him about it, on the one time when Mitchum had travelled to California to check in on his son's entrepreneurial endeavours.

One month later, when Logan flew to Connecticut for their next meeting, he found out that the second floor had been turned into a coffee shop, where employees were encouraged to spend their working hours.

Mitchum had died without admitting it, but Logan knew that the whole thing was more than just an attempt to bring the 21st Century to Corporate America. It was a huge, permanent symbol of his respect for his son, at least in the professional sphere.

And to him - more than to anyone - Mitchum Huntzberger's respect was worth more than a few million dollars in added revenue.

.x.

As they got their coffees and made their way back to the elevators, Logan gave Rory a quick rundown of the floor directory of the building - an amount of information so large that she wished she could be taking notes, even though he'd promised he'd give her a full, printed version of it when they got to his office.

"Speaking of which," he added, as they stepped into the now-full elevator. "As you may remember, your job didn't exist 72 hours ago, so... You don't exactly have an office, yet."

Rory couldn't help giving him a disappointed look, although she knew that she shouldn't have expected things to be any different. Her position had been created specifically for her, and it made perfect sense that they'd also need to create the physical space to accommodate her.

The nameplate in her bag (and her eager desire to put it on her desk) begged to differ.

"And where, exactly, am I supposed to work, then?"

"The meeting room on our floor that might work just fine for the next couple of days," he replied, nonchalantly taking a sip of his coffee. "Everything's very temporary, anyway. We're remodelling the whole floor, starting on Monday."

"Okay, let me ask this again." The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and Rory stepped out to allow a group of people to walk out. When the doors closed again, she continued, "Where are _we_ supposed to work while our entire floor is getting torn apart?"

"The whole 29th floor is meeting rooms. I vote we make the best of it and pick a new one every day." He chuckled at his own thoughts before jokingly adding, "You know, based on how big our ego's been feeling in the morning, or something."

"Good luck finding one big enough for you, then," she replied, before she could stop herself, and she could see the girl standing closest to them hide her face in the pile of folders that she was carrying, in an obvious effort to stop herself from laughing.

Thankfully for her, the elevator stopped again, and she bolted out of it, along with a few other people. Logan and Rory shared a knowing look and he stepped closer to her, whispering, "Is it just me, or we're rocking this 'first impressions' thing?"

.x.

Mitchum's name was etched on the glass door of his office, serving as an indelible reminder of its former occupant, capable of surviving even Logan's best efforts at removing every trace of his father from his sight.

Which explained why he'd spent an unhealthy number of hours daydreaming about how he'd make sure he was the one to kickstart the remodelling, by personally introducing that goddamned door to a sledgehammer.

That _almost_ sounded cathartic enough, in his opinion.

But until he could do that, he'd have to endure five more days of seeing someone else's name on _his_ door. Every. Fucking. Morning. Five more days of pretending that being under his father's omnipresent shadow wasn't the exact opposite of what he'd spent his whole life trying to accomplish.

Rory could sense his annoyance, but for a few moments, she couldn't decide what to do about it. The professional approach would be to pretend not to notice it, but it was clear to her that the rules for standard professional relationships didn't apply to them - and not just because she got that job for entirely personal reasons.

She'd done a lot of research before accepting that job, and everywhere she'd looked, the consensus seemed to be that being a COO was a lot like being the Vice President of the United States.

And somehow, she doubted that Joe Biden would just ignore Barack Obama's emotional reactions because it wasn't _professional_ to acknowledge them.

"So, this is where the magic happens," she joked, in an attempt to dissipate some of the tension emanating from him, and Logan found himself laughing along with her.

"Something like that," he replied, opening the door and stepping into the office. "Welcome to my crib, or whatever."

Rory followed him, stepping into the biggest office she'd ever seen - she'd need to check the numbers to be sure, but it looked bigger than her apartment in New York, and it had _three_ distinct environments.

The work area was located at the back of the room, near the floor-to-ceiling windows, but instead of facing them and the glorious view of the outside world, his desk (a mahogany piece that would have made Mrs. Kim weep tears of joy) had him turned to the inside, in the most invulnerable setup possible. A set of (empty) bookshelves lined the wall to her right, ending at what seemed to be the limit between the working area and the designated meeting space, comprised of a large round table and a set of six of the most comfortable-looking office chairs ever. To her left, a brown leather couch, two matching armchairs, and a glass coffee table created a living room of sorts, complete with a fully-stocked bar cart placed against the wall.

It was there that Logan chose to sit, on the same armchair he'd always picked during his meetings with his father, and Rory didn't seem to hesitate before settling on the second armchair, her bag neatly tucked at her side.

"This is for you," Logan said, reaching for a large envelope that topped a pile of folders on the coffee table. "It's a welcome package of sorts. You know, floor directory, access card to the staff garage, and your very own, brand new HPG press ID."

"You got me a _press ID_?" she asked, unable to hide her excitement, and once again Logan caught himself wondering how he'd managed to forget how easy it was to please her. "But why?"

"You were all maudlin about it last night, and I...- Colin assured me that there's nothing stopping you from writing, aside from pesky details like, good luck finding the time for it. So I figured, why the hell not?" He shrugged, remembering his conversation with his friend, the night before.

It was Colin who pointed out that Rory's contract was unusually permissive, to the point that she'd been given more freedom than Logan, the CEO and chairman of the board, who was banned from having any future bylines on his name. Not only did Rory's contract omit that clause, but it also lacked anything resembling a non-compete agreement, as far as being published went.

Which meant that God himself couldn't stop her from writing for the _Times_ again, if they wanted her to.

Logan could see the many ways that kind of power could become a problem, even in Rory's hands, and how much it could damage them both, if not used with extreme caution. But knowing the dangers of that peculiar situation didn't do anything to diminish his awe at his father's astuteness.

Mitchum sure as fuck knew who he was trying to woo.

And how to win her.

"Thank you," she replied, giving him a look that suggested that she could burst into tears in response to his gesture - and the reasoning behind it. She knew Logan way too well to take his dismissive tone at face value, when it was just an attempt to distract her from the actual message.

She was upset; he just _had to_ do something about it.

"Don't thank me; I'm just exploring the loopholes." He smiled at her, but that display of amicability didn't last long, being replaced by a slightly more formal, "In the spirit of full disclosure, you should also know that you're free to write for any publication you want, even if we don't own them. But I'd like to pull the 'I'm the boss' card for a second here, to request that you don't accept any potential jobs without running it by me first, _especially_ if it's not for one of our papers. Taking a freelance job may sound silly and inconsequential, but nothing is that simple when you have a seat at the board. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He leaned back on his chair, resting his elbow on the armrest and taking a sip from his coffee. "But I gotta be honest with you; I'm not that much of a stickler for hierarchy, and I'd much rather have a more horizontal relationship with you." He paused, then laughed. "And that sounded way more sexual than I intended."

"Oh, good, because that couch over there had me worried for a second."

Logan shook his head, trying to get rid of any thoughts about how his father had definitely engaged in _that_ kind of 'horizontal relationship' with most (if not all) of his former assistants, on that exact couch - and many other surfaces of the office.

Yet another reason why he couldn't wait to make it all disappear from his sight.

He cleared his throat, his expression turning a little more serious as he said, "What I meant was, there's an organizational chart somewhere in HR that puts my name above yours, but as far as I'm concerned, that's just some bullshit formality. I hired you for your brains and your insights, and I have no intention of letting all that go to waste by winning every argument on the grounds that my name is on the wall."

"How very millennial of you," she teased, making him laugh.

"I just can't imagine how we'd be able to function in any other way, you know? I'm sure you've done your research, so I don't think I need to tell you that we're supposed to have this weirdly symbiotic relationship where even your job description is defined by my management style and my needs."

"Yeah, I figured as much," she agreed. "I'm just not sure what those needs are."

Logan smiled mischievously, glancing at the couch, and she could tell that he'd stopped himself short from giving her an inappropriate, sexual answer. Then, with more sobriety than she'd ever expected from him, he replied, "I need someone to share this with me - someone who can make up for my shortcomings. I'm really good with the numbers and the money, but at the end of the day, I'm just... _not a journalist_." He sighed. "I can bullshit my way through a meeting like the best of them, but we aren't in Yale, where not failing was the same as succeeding. And the board? They won't take any less than success." He paused, his eyes leaving hers to focus on a random spot behind her shoulder. "And I can't do it on my own."

"So, you need someone to be the Robin to your Batman."

"Yeah... no." He smiled faintly at her. "That would. Imply that you're just a sidekick, when that's not the case at all. You're the person who can do the things I can't who knows the things I don't. Almost like...-"

"The Brennan to your Booth."

"Minus the whole shipping thing."

Rory frowned, her confused expression making him laugh, and it took her a second to get over her surprise for long enough to say, "Totally not the kind of vocabulary I expected from you."

"Don't underestimate how much you can learn when trying to get laid," he replied, thinking of all the hours he'd wasted in boring conversations, hoping that he'd get to take the girl home before she proved to be so dull that she just wasn't worth the effort. He used to love the flirting and the wooing, way back when he prided himself in never having had a girlfriend, but he'd always hated that other part - the one where he had to pretend to be interested in what the other person had to say, when she had nothing.

Rory had never been like that. Sure, she did look like the kind of pretty girl who usually caught his attention, but she wasn't like them at all. She was smart, witty, cultured (but not in a pretentious, Ivy League-esque way), and even though she did have silly and superficial moments, it seemed that she was always silly and superficial in all the right ways.

All the right ways _for him_ , that is.

"Anyway," he said, reminding himself that it wasn't healthy to dwell in thoughts about how his _ex-girlfriend_ was perfect for him. "Yeah, I guess I need you to be my Brennan."

"Minus the shipping," she repeated, and he wasn't sure if she was just mocking him or trying to ensure that they were on the same page regarding any future developments of their relationship.

The only problem was, he _knew_ that he'd regret it if he agreed that a romantic involvement was off the table for them. Which was why he replied, "If we're talking in terms of what I _need_ , then yes."

She nodded, slowly, drinking the last of her coffee before she said, "That's pretty much what we've been doing for years."

"We've done a lot of _shipping_ , in case you don't remember."

She gave him an impatient look, rolling her eyes before she said, "What I meant was, where's the challenge in it, then?"

Logan laughed, feeling tempted to point out that she'd been saying the exact opposite for the entire week. "I'm glad you asked," he said, giving her, a winning smile, "because I've got an assignment for you." He picked up the pile of folders from the coffee table and handed them to her. "This is our portfolio. I had it all printed out for you, because I know how much you like your highlighters and post-its, so feel free to colour-code the fuck out of these. Did you bring your own office supplies?"

"Only a few pens. And a highlighter... or five."

"Well, I've set up the meeting room for you, so you've got a laptop, a phone, and about five different colours of post-its. Passwords, phone numbers, and detailed directions to the office supply closet are in the envelope. Do you need anything else?"

"Just the instructions for the assignment, I guess."

"It's pretty simple. Read those, or at least the five folders at the top. Take your notes, do your research, form an opinion on them. Do these papers suck? Are they great? Do they at least have potential? You have until noon to do that, before we go out for lunch. We'll spend the afternoon at a couple of never-ending meetings, and once we're done with that, we'll get back in here to discuss your conclusions. Questions?"

"Only about a thousand of them," she replied, biting her lower lip. "But I think the most pressing is, what about the rest?"

"What rest?"

"You know, the management part. I know that the 'Brennan and Booth' thing implies this is a two-way street and all, so I'm guessing you'd be glad to help me with that, but it's kind of in my job description, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Well, most COOs spend _years_ climbing the corporate ladder, but I just got catapulted all the way to the top, and I appreciate the opportunity, Logan, I really do, but I...- I didn't get the chance to learn how to run a company, and I'm afraid that's gonna end up biting me in the ass, eventually."

Logan hesitated, trying to come up with a way to phrase his reply. He couldn't deny that her concern was valid, especially when he'd lost count of how many sleepless nights he'd spent worrying about not knowing what he was doing. Much like Rory, he'd barely spent any time at all at the bottom of the corporate ladder before he'd found a shortcut to the top, and there had been many moments when he could do little more than look at himself in the mirror and wonder, _who the fuck do you think you're fooling?_

That feeling had never quite gone away, although it had eased up with time.

And a little help from his dad.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Ace, it will be tough. But I promise you I'll be right here, ready to help you in any way I can, even when all you need is someone to hold you while you cry because you're so fucking afraid of failing. We can have weekly check-in meetings, if you're into that kind of thing, and I can give you some books to read, and we'll find out what works for you - together."

"I like how that sounds." She smiled at him, finding it hard to pretend that she didn't like the amount of emphasis he was putting on the idea that they were an indivisible team.

"Good." He smiled back at her. "Now, I think it's time to get you settled and get to work, because I don't even want to _think_ of all the emails I need to read before I can do something useful with my time. Want me to walk you to your meeting room?"

She looked at all the papers on her lap. On their way up from the coffee shop, Logan had mentioned (albeit briefly) something about the location of her temporary office.

She just needed to remember what he'd said.

"Two doors down the hall, right?"

Logan's lips curled up in a proud smirk, and he replied, "Glass wall, big table; you can't miss it."

"I think I can find it on my own, then." She got up, balancing all the folders on one hand as she picked up her bag with the other. "But thanks for the offer, Mr. Huntzberger."

"You're welcome, Miss Gilmore."

With one last smile and yet another futile attempt at making her bag stay in place on her shoulder, she walked towards the door, while Logan tried to convince himself that it was wrong to stare at her ass while she walked away - but really, those heels and _that_ skirt?

That was just cruel.

She'd just stepped out of his office when she stopped, spinning on her heels to look at him again. If it wasn't for the mischievous look on her face, Logan would have expected a new question or some other work-related statement, but even though he knew better than to think she had something serious to say, the three words that left her mouth were still surprising - in the most confusing ways.

"Master and Commander."

"What, the movie?"

She laughed. "That's what I'm gonna call you from now on."

* * *

 **A/N:** HELLO EVERYONE! After a way too long hiatus, I'm back! I'm so sorry it took me so long to update, but life got in the way in MAJOR ways (including a third trip to the ER and a week of antibiotics!).

Next chapter should be up in two weeks, tops. In the meantime, if you've stuck with me after all this time, let me know! And thank you thank you thank you for being so nice and loving in the reviews.


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